Yes, Dear
by ScarlettSnow6
Summary: Sherlock and Rose have something of a mutual arrangement: marriage. No, it's not for love. Love is for children. Both have their reasons; some they don't talk about. But they both need each other, and they both need the chase. SHERLOCK/OC
1. Prologue: Pearls

**Author's Note: **Well I never thought I'd be saying this, but greetings, readers! After three years of hesitation, I have finally begun my very first fanfic…ever. I absolutely love Sherlock but I can never find an OC/Sherlock pairing I completely like so that's pretty much the main reason why I'm writing my own. I think the reason most romantic Sherlock fanfictions are rarely to my satisfaction is because it's so hard to keep Sherlock in character and in love at the same time. I mean, that sounds like a paradox, right? I honestly do not believe I'm a better writer than the others; I just want to give Sherlock a try. I apologize if my OC comes off as a bit of a Mary Sue, and I apologize that the prologue has very little Sherlock in it. This chapter will take place just before "A Study in Pink" and in the next chapter I plan to bring in John.

I own nothing except my OC, Rose.

Please enjoy, and feel free to give some constructive criticism, yeah?

**Prologue: Pearls**

It was another boring party.

It was the eleventh she had been invited to this season and the fifth she had attended. More champagne, more pearls around more stiff necks, and more forced smiles at the (rather obtuse) jokes told by London's "finest": blue-blooded Brits who could trace their families back centuries; almost all of which dating back to nobility.

The tall, porcelain-skinned young woman in the black dress was bewildered at the fact that she was considered one of them.

Deciding she had had enough, she downed the last bit of her champagne (there was never anything stronger offered), and scouted the ballroom for the hosts of the party so that she could thank them for inviting her, do the job she came for, and get the hell out. After scanning the immaculately decorated room, she was relieved to spot the Godfreys already together, receiving some guests. She observed the aging pair with ice-colored eyes.

With permanently scrunched-up noses, pursed lips, and chins that jutted out from holding their heads so high, Mr. and Mrs. Godfrey perfectly illustrated the stereotype of the wealthy and the pompous. General Edwin Godfrey came from a long line of military leaders. In fact, he was wearing his uniform this evening: heavily adorned with badges and medals of honor, which led the young woman to wonder if this party was thrown to celebrate some sort of achievement in the General's (quite extensive) career. She wouldn't have guessed, for his wife, Edith Godfrey, seemed to throw a party for every kind of occasion—often for no reason at all.

Taking a deep breath, the young woman marched over to the couple. While Edith's face lit up at the sight of the woman, General Godfrey's expression remained virtually unchanged as he watched her with icy-blue eyes.

She supposed that was the most fortunate feature she could inherit from him.

"Rosamond, my dearest!" Edith cooed as she enfolded the woman in an insubstantial hug and flurry of air-kisses. "I was so hoping you'd show up. You've been so scarce, lately."

"Hello, Mother," Rose greeted, resisting the impulse to cringe at the use of her "official" name.

"So where is he?" Her mother demanded, peering over her shoulder as if the man in question was hiding behind her. Rose didn't have to answer, for her silence alone was enough. "Not here _again_?" Edith exclaimed.

"I told you, Mother, he hates these types of gatherings." Rose was very tempted to add "So do I," but held her tongue.

"But he is your _husband_! And I don't mean to pry, dear, but," she lowered her voice. "I don't want you giving people the wrong idea."

Rose's politeness could not win her over this time as she couldn't help but roll her eyes.

"What idea, Mother? That Sherlock doesn't exist?"

"Rosamond." Edith snapped at her thirty-two year old daughter in a way similar to how she snapped at her Pomeranian, Caesar, when he was being naughty. "All I'm saying is that when a married woman of _our _society attends social events without her _husband_, people begin to _talk_."

Edith was smiling, but she spoke to Rose with clenched teeth and enunciated certain words as though her daughter was slow. Nonetheless, Rose decided to continue playing nice.

"I'm sorry, Mother," she said. It's just that he's been busy. So have I; actually I was-"

Rose halted her words upon realizing that her mother had already turned to greet another guest—"Lillian, my dearest!" and a gust of air-kisses.

"_Just stopping by,_" her words trailed. Annoyed and a bit embarrassed (but mostly annoyed), Rose turned her head to the General, who stood, as always, with his back straight and his hands folded. He made eye contact with his daughter, and gave a simple, brief nod. Understanding the thousand unsaid words of disapproval and forgiveness of Edith's, well, bitchiness, Rose nodded back, and smirked.

"You take care, Dad," she murmured, the sentence meaning much more than anyone but them could fathom.

Once again, the General neither smiled nor spoke.

Rose walked away to roam around the enormous venue her parents had rented out in the country. Shaking off the not-so-pleasant encounter with her mother, she remembered that she had work to do.

Plucking another champagne flute from the tray of one of the many caterers in the room, Rose scanned for her target, which wasn't too hard to spot.

Charles Callaghan, the silver-haired editor in chief of the London Times, was standing off-center in the ballroom, talking to another guest.

Pretending to admire the décor of the room, Rose made sure to keep a view of him without looking obvious.

All she had to do now was to wait for him to pull out his mobile.

This was something she counted on because one, he was a very busy man who probably had no qualms making calls and texts while at a party and two, he lived in the age of technology and was, therefore, a slave to it like everyone else in this room.

After finishing her champagne, Rose worried for a moment that she'd be drunk before Callaghan would ever take out his phone until—

_Bingo._

Callaghan, still conversing with the guest, paused mid-sentence to take out his ringing phone.

As he was taking it out to answer it, Rose initiated phase one of her plan of attack. She walked in a direction parallel to him.

_Alright, Rose. You have one shot at this. If it doesn't work you just take it and run. _

As she walked past a woman to her left who was wearing (more) pearls, Rose pretended to quickly run her hand through her wavy dark hair. Her hand, which happened to have a ring on it, hit the woman on the neck.

As Rose had hoped, the ring latched on to the necklace. As though it startled her, Rose quickly pulled her hand back.

This caused the string of pearls to snap, unleashing a massacre of tiny little bullets.

Rose exclaimed to the woman an apology and spun around, as though to hurry away in embarrassment, but deliberately bumped into Callaghan. Rose didn't really have to fake tripping over the little beads. Grabbing hold of the journalist (very much out of reflex), she pulled him down with her.

Most importantly, Callaghan's phone hit the floor. And _thank the Lord_, it broke open, with the SIM card falling out.

"Oh, _God!_ I'm so sorry I'm so clumsy you have no idea how often I trip over things no matter how hard I try it's like things just get in my way I'm such a klutz…" As she babbled with a rather inaudible string of apologies, Rose snatched the card, slipped it in her dress pocket, and snapped the now empty phone back together as she picked it up.

The man didn't notice a thing.

"Oh, there's no trouble at all, miss," Callaghan reassured the woman. "Pretty little thing like you can very well get away with being a little clumsy every now and then," he winked.

Swallowing down her bile at the (much) older man's flirtatiousness, Rose forced a giggle. "Is there anything I can do to make it up to you? We can get drinks on me." Rose immediately regretted making the offer, but now she had to play the role of an empty-headed socialite.

She was relieved, however, when the man smiled and shook his head. "I'm afraid not tonight, my dear. You see, I'm Charles Callaghan."

When this didn't invoke a response from Rose, he continued. "I'm the editor in chief of the Times."

Still playing the ditzy socialite, Rose gave out a fan girl squeal. "Yes, you see, and I need to go hurry back to London and prepare for a press conference tomorrow."

Rose couldn't resist.

"A _press conference? _Ooh! Are you interviewing someone important?!" Rose asked, playing the role.

"Just Scotland Yard." He grinned and lowered his voice to a whisper and approached closer. "Can you keep a secret?" Rose nodded quickly, trying not to pull away from the sudden personal-space breach. "There have been a series of deaths, _three_, so far. All of them looked like suicide, _in the same way, from the same poison._"

Rose gasped, but on the inside, she was dying of laughter.

She was really enjoying this too much. "But Charles—I can call you Charles, right?" Callaghan nodded. "How can they all be the same?"

"That is PRECISELY what I thought. My theory is that these are all…_murder_."

That time, Rose couldn't help it. A laugh escaped from her lips. When Callaghan looked at her oddly, she covered it up with a cough.

"Well, Charles, I hope you find your answers," Rose said. "Don't worry, I'll find them." And with that, Callaghan turned on his heel to leave. Relieved he never asked for her name, Rose watched as walked away as he appeared to be having trouble with turning his phone on. Rose headed toward the opposite exit, laughing to herself.

On the way out, she passed her mother, and they made eye contact. She had clearly witnessed the pearl incident, and was now giving her a very disapproving look. Rose smirked to herself as she reached the door.

This evening had gone _much _better than she had hoped.

* * *

As she walked out of the main ballroom and into the hallway, her phone buzzed. She took it out of her purse and looked at the screen.

_Did you get it?_

_-SH_

She was expecting him to message her. She told him to wait an hour. Sherlock was very concise with time…when it involved something he wanted. She typed a reply:

_Yes, I'm on my way to your flat and I'll synchronize it onto your phone. It's probably password-protected, so I'll unlock it when I get there, probably around 11:30._

_-RGH_

Rose sighed. She really had no idea why she just said she'd make even more of an effort for him. She had, after all, spent an hour among people she detested just as much as he did, and now she'd be stuck with him at his flat until well past midnight. Her phone buzzed again.

_Good. Hurry up._

_-SH_

Classic Sherlock. She bent sown to unfasten her heels, not caring that she just reached the dark parking lot. Dangling her shoes from her right hand, she typed another response with her left.

_So tell me again why you couldn't get this yourself? You had no trouble getting Lestrade's and I imagine he was more difficult. And you showing up would've gotten my mother off my back._

_-RGH_

Rose hit "send" just as she reached her black Mercedes. The next message came just as she got in the driver's seat.

_Because journalists are loathsome parasites and you know how I hate that woman. Now hurry up._

_-SH_

Rose sighed once more as she put her key in the ignition. She wondered, again, why she put up with the man.

Why did she choose to endure a "marriage" not based on love but mutual benefit?

Why did she deal with people she utterly loathed just so he could have a little fun with Scotland Yard and the press?

But she knew exactly why: Because she lived for the chase, and the murderers, and the thrill.

And so did he.

And by God, nobody had a nose for it quite like Sherlock Holmes.

Still, there was an emptiness inside her; a loneliness. She knew that as long as she followed Sherlock on the chase, she would never have a normal marriage; she would never have children, or a husband who loved her, or, well, a normal life.

She looked down at the diamond ring on her left hand. It was an heirloom, belonging to the Holmes family for well over a century and the pearl incident had left it unscathed.

_At least it did something for me tonight, _she thought. Just as she was about to back out of the space, her phone lit up again.

_Almost forgot: I'm not at my flat. I'm at St. Bart's._

_-SH_

Letting out a groan, Rose banged her head against the steering wheel, causing the horn to announce to the world (or at least the parking lot) that Sherlock Holmes was one day going to literally drive Rosamond Godfrey Holmes to the point of insanity.


	2. Chapter 1: A Deck of Cards

**Author's Note: **Aaaaaaannd we're back! It took me a little longer to think of a way to start this chapter, but it finally came to me today. This chapter takes place after "A Study in Pink;" I didn't want to put Rose in that episode because I really didn't want to interfere with Sherlock and John getting to know each other. I'm not entirely satisfied with this chapter, but it does what I need it to do.

Here, we're gonna understand more why Rose and Sherlock are married, what Rose is like away from her parents, and what Rose and Sherlock's relationship is like.

Once again, I do not own Sherlock. Everything except Rose and her family belongs to BBC.

So please enjoy, and let me know if you do (or don't) in a much-appreciated review!

**Chapter 1: A Deck of Cards**

As Sherlock Holmes and John Watson exited their cab and walked up the steps to 221B, John took the moment to let the adrenaline from the past twenty-four hours clear his head; and his memory flashed through all the encounters he had experienced since meeting the infamous consulting detective.

He was aware of how little he knew about this man, but he was certain of one thing:

_My life is about to change._

No, it wasn't _about _to change, it had _already_ changed. John had now seen the battlefield of London, just as Mycroft had said; and after witnessing it, he knew he could never look away again.

But as he and Sherlock walked up the hallway steps to their flat, John put those thoughts aside and returned to the question that had really vexed him this evening:

"But seriously, Sherlock, how in the _hell _did you know my fortune would say that?"

Sherlock, who was removing his gloves, grinned to himself.

He could really get used to this.

"Honestly, John, I don't see how you could be so puzzled by a fortune cookie. Fortunes that mention new adventures and horizons are one of the most common ones you can get, especially if you happen to be at that restaurant on a Tuesday or a Friday…"

John smiled at the memory of the fortune. Although he knew better than to put any amount of trust in things like fortune cookies, this time it rang true for him.

As Sherlock opened the door and walked through, John followed behind. He was about to ask Sherlock (not for the first time) _how on Earth he figured that out,_ until he stopped dead in his tracks.

There was a woman on their sofa.

There was a woman on their sofa, and she was using Sherlock's laptop.

"Uh…Sherlock?" John asked uneasily, his hand reaching into his pocket for his gun; not to take it out, but simply to make sure it was there.

Sherlock had also stopped when he noticed her, but he hardly looked alarmed, if not a bit annoyed.

_What the hell is going on?_

"Rose," Sherlock greeted curtly.

"Sherlock," the woman returned with a pleasant smile, as though they were friends meeting for coffee. "You know, you really need to start coming up with better passwords."

"And a better lock on my door, apparently," Sherlock responded as he snatched his laptop from her, very much in the way a child would with a toy he doesn't want to share.

"Oh, Mrs. Hudson let me in," she cheerfully replied, standing up.

John, meanwhile, was absolutely baffled. This woman had let herself into the flat, and got through the security system (apparently not for the first time) of Sherlock Holmes.

Someone had invaded the living space of Sherlock Holmes.

_And just when I thought nothing else could surprise me today…_

On top of the scenario itself, the army doctor was shocked by her appearance.

She was absurdly beautiful.

She had dark brown hair; almost black, that was curled in a way similar to how the actresses did in the 1940's. _Pin curls, I think they're called. _She had incredibly fair skin, except for her cheeks, which shone a faint pink, healthy-looking glow. And she had icy blue eyes, almost but not quite as light as those of the man now scowling at her, and they were outlined with cat-like liquid liner; once again making an allusion to the beauties of the mid-twentieth century, along with her perfectly arched eyebrows and the red lipstick upon her full lips. Moreover, she had a slender, graceful build, which was further enhanced by her perfectly tailored navy-blue blouse and black pencil skirt.

And she was tall; quite tall for a woman. In her heels she was almost Sherlock's exact height, but John guessed she'd still be about 5 ft. 7 without them.

Realizing he was staring, John cleared his throat.

"Sorry, um, who…who are you?"

The lovely intruder moved to the side table and picked up a glass filled with some sort of amber liquor.

"I was about to ask you the same thing, shorty," she remarked with a cheeky smile as she raised the glass to her lips.

_Shorty? _

John wanted to question the snide nickname, but focused on the situation at hand. He looked toward Sherlock, silently demanding an explanation. As though finally realizing the confusion between his new flat-mate and the uninvited visitor, Sherlock spoke up.

"Oh, yes. Rose, this is my _friend, _John Watson. John, this is my wife, Rose."

The detective gave his introduction of the woman so casually, John wondered for a moment if he misheard him.

"You have a _wife_?!" John almost shouted.

"You have a _friend_?!" Rose said with equal shock. She immediately regretted it, however, when she saw the detective's expression. He may have been a sociopath (a high-functioning one at that), but Rose knew better than anyone that Sherlock Holmes did, believe it or not, have feelings. And just now she knew she hurt them, a little.

Sherlock, however, made no apparent intention of dwelling on the offense, and verified, "yes, she is my wife and yes, John is my new flat-mate," and then added softly "and friend."

_Huh, _Rose thought as she looked into Sherlock's eyes. _A friend._

John, not seeming to notice the questions wordlessly being exchanged between the two, chided in.

"Wait, hang on, you're _married_?"

Rose sighed. _Hadn't they just been over this?_

But Rose pitied the poor man for his confusion. He was clearly overwhelmed, what with the woman who just appeared to have broken in, and to find that she's married to a man who had very few friends (if you could consider your land lady and a skull friends). But she found that his reasons extended as she studied him, and realized—

"Oh, God," Rose murmured. "You saw the war today, didn't you? How strange that must be after just getting out of another…"

John's mouth fell open. "Did, um, he tell you that?" He asked, indicating Sherlock.

Rose smiled and shook her head, again, understanding where his shock was coming from.

"So…there are two of you?" This day could not possibly get any weirder.

"Not exactly," Rose said. "Sherlock invented the process of deduction. I've just watched him do it for years, and I'm only now getting the hang of it-"

At this, Sherlock, who had picked up his violin and was now tuning it, snorted at her words. "Hardly," was all he said. Rose did her best to ignore his interruption.

"—but I digress. Yes, Sherlock and I have been married for about a year and a half. But you see, John, our marriage is hardly what you'd call…conventional."

"I'm afraid I don't understand," John said with his brow furrowed.

"What she means, John," Sherlock quipped, "is that we didn't marry out of _love_." He said the word "love" the way someone might say "snot sandwich."

Rose, still holding her drink, returned to the couch, this time perching herself on one of the arms. _This is where it gets weird, _Rose almost said to him, but decided against it.

Sherlock continued, "Love is for children, John. Our reasons are a bit more practical."

Rose, swirling her drink around, said, "Our parents are rich and retrograde." She smiled at John, as though this would completely clear things up. John, however, remained baffled.

_Okay I take back what I said. This day definitely just got weirder, _he thought.

"Would you care to elaborate, maybe?" he asked.

"It's quite simple, John," Sherlock, still holding his violin, spoke up. Our families are very close and want us out of trouble. If we're married, our parents assume we're preoccupied and leave us alone."

"For the most part," Rose added blandly, and continued. "My parents are backward in a way that's completely twisted but quite convenient for us. You see, my mother's wish for me is to grow up to be just like her: a bored socialite-"

"-And drunk," Sherlock supplied, appearing to be absorbed in inspecting the neck of his violin.

Rose was slightly offended by the comment, but deciding they were now even after what she said to him earlier, resolved to take it lightly.

"Well, I'm nearly there on that one," she responded, pointedly taking another sip from her glass. "So as long as I'm married to Sherlock, and don't do anything to get my hands dirty or make the family look bad, I'm secured a considerable amount of access to a considerable amount of money."

John was beginning to see their reasoning (bizarre as it was) but then wondered out loud, "but doesn't Sherlock have a tendency to…get his hands dirty?"

"Oh, that's the fun part," Rose answered, setting down the now-empty glass. "I fly under the radar, because for the most part, I can actually handle our family's lunacy _and _play the part of a proper young lady." Sherlock, understanding the joke, smirked at her.

When Rose regained her composure, she continued:

"We've known each other a long time, and when we were little, I was the one to keep him out of trouble."

"Hardly," Sherlock interrupted again.

Rose smiled at his remark this time, remembering the precious few happy memories the two shared in their childhoods. "Hardly," she echoed quietly. "So you see, if I'm married to Sherlock, our families believe I'll continue to keep him out of trouble. But really, I only encourage it."

"How?" John asked.

"Our marriage insures our inheritances, but unfortunately, mine is withheld because I'm expected to have a 'real job,'" Sherlock explained. "As yet another benefit to our mutual arrangement, Rose essentially pays me for every case I solve." Here, Sherlock paused, remembering the cab driver who uttered "Moriarty" just hours ago.

"I guess you could say she's my sponsor," he finished with a roguish smile.

John didn't have to ask why Rose paid him to follow murderers. Reading the question on his face, she explained further.

"If there's one thing we have in common (Rose refrained from adding _besides our intellect _since he'd discover that on his own soon), it's that we both have a passion for the chase."

"Except it's a hobby for you, Rosamond," said Sherlock with a hint of contempt. "For me, it's life."

Ignoring (once again) his comments, Rose finished, "But I can't experience it hands-on. So instead, I get the next best thing."

"And what's that?" John asked.

"A front row seat."

John (poor thing) still didn't seem to understand, so Sherlock impatiently elaborated.

"I solve cases, and keep her in the loop."

"But you have your website," said John.

"Which was my idea," Rose said with a touch of pride, causing Sherlock to roll his eyes to himself. "But I prefer to hear it in person, best way to hear a good story from the battlefield," Rose said with a smile. "Which reminds me," she said standing up, only to plop herself on the other side of the detective so that she now claimed the middle of the couch. "You. Start. Now."

"What?" John asked.

"I came because I had the feeling Sherlock solved the 'suicide' case," Rose explained. And you both came in talking about fortune cookies. Sherlock never eats when he's on a case, so it's been solved, yes?"

"So, you just pop in here on a regular basis?" _Seriously, what was with this family and dramatic entrances?_

"Hardly," she answered. "I normally wait for Sherlock to text me, but every once in a while I can't sleep and there's never anything on telly."

John stared at the woman in disbelief (again). When they first came in, Rose struck him as someone refined and mature (in spite of her unorthodox introduction). At the mention of the case, she acted like an excited child.

And then it hit him how startlingly alike she and Sherlock were in some ways: they were both this strange hybrid of child and adult, they had an apparent obsession with a good case, and they even had physical features that matched each other.

But it wasn't a kind of likeness you saw among siblings, it was like when you looked at a king of hearts and a queen of hearts in a deck of cards, and you knew that they matched, and there was no denying that they were together.

Except they weren't.

Not really, at least.

Returning to reality, John suddenly realized the absurdity of Rose's request (or rather, her demand).

"Rose," he said, "It's half past two."

Rose, not seeming to comprehend (or hear) John's protest, got up "I brought brandy," she announced (so that's what she'd been drinking), heading into the kitchen.

Sherlock, on the other hand, seemed to have gotten over his initial irritation with the woman's presence (for reasons unknown) and appeared un-phased by the ungodly hour as he simply moved to a lounging position on the couch, now plucking at his instrument.

"So, where do you live, Rose?" John asked her as he watched her move a jar of what appeared to hold a diseased liver to make room for the glasses. Judging by how she handled the jar and its contents, John had a very strong notion that that wasn't the first time she'd touched one of Sherlock's experiments.

"Oh, I have a place out in Chelsea," Rose called over her shoulder as she poured the drinks.

John mouthed a "wow" to himself. Sherlock's "sponsor" lived in one of the most expensive neighborhoods in London.

"So…your parents pay you to do nothing?" He asked.

"God, no!" Rose said, slamming the bottle down, apparently for dramatic effect. "I mean, I imagine that's ultimately what they want of me, even though they did put me through school and all. But no, if I spent my whole life without lifting a finger, I'd go insane."

"Like your mother?" Sherlock supplied.

"No like yours," Rose retorted, handing him and John their glasses. Sherlock took it, chuckling, but made no move to drink from it.

"So what do you do, then?" John asked.

Rose leaned against the table. "I'm a professional freelancer," she answered matter-of-factly.

"I'm sorry?" John asked.

"I do whatever I like for a living."

"A living? But you just said you have your parents' money."

"To an extent," she explained. "I mostly publish essays, when I'm not assisting my dear old brother-in-law."

"So you work for Mycroft?" John asked.

"She's practically the ring master of his computer network," Sherlock said dryly.

"Oh. But, doesn't he try to make you, uh, spy on-"

"No," Rose said. "Because of me he has eyes and ears all over the entire city."

"Country," Sherlock corrected.

"And he knows that it would just take one little algorithm from yours truly to make him blind and deaf once more, so he knows better than to pry on me about Sherlock."

"Wait, so you're-"

"A genius?" She offered. "Yeah, a bit. Now are you done asking questions? Because I really want to get to the story."

"Just one more," John promised. "Is this…arrangement a secret?"

"Not necessarily," the two answered in unison.

"It's just not something we regularly mention in conversations," Sherlock said.

"But my…sponsorship," Rose said, finding herself quickly adopting the word, "Now that's a secret, and I—we—prefer to keep it that way."

"Don't worry, your secret's safe with me," John assured her earnestly.

Rose, not fully convinced, glanced at Sherlock for confirmation. He nodded, and she knew he trusted him. And if he trusted this man, then so did she.

"Thank you," she said softly. "Now then, let's get to the story. I want it all in detail, preferably beginning with how the two of you met."

So the three stayed in the living room well into the hours of daylight; Rose sitting attentively as John and Sherlock, together, told her the tale of the study in pink; from their first meeting in the lab, all the way to Sherlock's discovery of the new name:

_Moriarty._

* * *

**Author's Note: **Aw, don't you just love friendship? Again, I'm not very satisfied with the chapter: I ended up focusing a lot on John (who frankly asked too many questions), and I made Sherlock a bit passive; I guess I'm still a little uneasy writing him. However, I think I got the point across that he and Rose have what you might call a cat-and-mouse relationship, but they're definitely close. I plan to make this story begin to really pick up speed in the next chapter.


	3. Chapter 2: The Diogenes Club

**Author's Note:** Okay, sorry I've taken so long to update! I haven't had any motivation to write and this chapter was hard for me, not sure why.

I have a _really _high respect for this show; like, it's something sacred to me, and I find it hard to interfere with a lot of the stuff in it.

This chapter is happening around the middle of "The Blind Banker." I know it's short and, frankly rather boring, but I promise I'll have another up tomorrow.

So please enjoy, and if you do, favorite/follow (those make me very happy and I work faster when I'm happy). Let me know what you like/don't like.

I own nothing except Rose.

**Chapter 2: The Diogenes Club**

The Diogenes club was a place of silence, more or less.

It was a place where the quiet intellectuals of London retreated, as they pored over their books with wordless concentration, creating an energy so tangible, so compelling, you were almost afraid to speak, even if necessary.

But Rose knew what really lied beyond this perpetual veil of silence.

The club, which had been mainly founded by Mycroft himself, was his unofficial headquarters for conducting the British government.

Every member was an operative for the elder Holmes brother, sworn to silence as long as they were in the main lobby, and only seemed to leave when summoned away.

And every one of these members were men, who, like the disciples of Diogenes himself, lived lives of celibacy in order to pursue knowledge.

How they cringed when Rose visited.

Well, they didn't really cringe; one of the first rules of the club was that you never acknowledged anyone else.

But she felt it.

She could actually _feel_ the mood in the air change from productive, worker-bee bliss to an agonizing sense of unease.

_Well, it _is_ a gentleman's club._

Though Rose, of course, wasn't a member herself, Mycroft made a special exception for her. He would allow her in whenever he wanted her to see him in his office.

And that wasn't necessarily what one would call a _treat_.

Knowing Mycroft was expecting her and would soon have someone wave her in, Rose made herself comfortable on a sofa, making sure to choose an empty one for the sake of the men's comfort (these men were seriously terrified of women) and picked up a nearby book, keeping herself as focused on its contents as possible.

As she finished the first chapter, someone lightly tapped her on the shoulder. She looked up to see an elderly man (members of the club were generally ranged from age forty and beyond) who was very careful to not make eye contact.

Nodding in understanding, Rose set down the book and stood to make her way for Mycroft's office, which, aside from The Stranger's Room, was the only place that did not forbid talking.

* * *

Rose entered the office to find her brother-in-law, as usual, bent over the work on his desk. Looking up, he set down his pen and smiled.

"Ah, there you are Rosamond. Please, sit down. We have much to discuss."

Rose sat down at one of the two chairs facing Mycroft's desk.

For some reason, Mycroft was really the only person Rose didn't mind calling her Rosamond. Perhaps because such an action was only expected from someone like him, or perhaps because she simply didn't really care about what he thought of her.

But Rose knew the truth: in spite of his stuffy attitude and nosiness, there were very few people in the world Rose respected more than Mycroft Holmes.

Although he was the type of man who would rather be wrong about something than make the effort to prove himself right, Mycroft was a genius in the truest form. So true, in fact, that his skills in the science of deduction outmatched even Sherlock's, though he would never say so.

But there were other things Rose respected Mycroft for: things he _knew_ she respected him for, but the two had an unspoken pact to never mention them. Not again, at least.

And yet, though Rose tolerated him more than anyone else in her family besides Sherlock, she couldn't honestly say she _liked_ him.

Skipping social niceties, Rose got to the point.

"What do you want, Mycroft?" She asked, folding her hands.

"What, I can't have a nice chat with my dear little sister every now and again?" Mycroft asked, making a minimal effort to sound offended.

Rose only raised her eyebrow in response.

"No, I suppose not," Mycroft decided, he too now putting pleasantries aside. "I called you here to make a…little request."

"I told you, Mycroft, what Sherlock does is none of your business."

"Oh, what I ask has nothing to do with Sherlock. It concerns only you, my dear."

Rose sighed. "I'm listening."

"You know I'm not one for superstitions, Rosamond," Mycroft began. "But there is something on its way here. Something _different_. I can feel it."

Rose stared at the man incredulously. "You have…a _feeling_?"

"I didn't exactly have a feeling, Rose, but there _is_ something odd going on in the criminal world; a shift."

Rose rolled her eyes. "So you think something's coming because the world is misbehaving a bit more than usual?"

"Well that's just it: everywhere outside Britain, crime rates have _dropped_ by just a little over three percent-in less than five days."

"Maybe they're all on holiday?" Rose dryly joked.

Mycroft, however, was not amused. "Rose, haven't you ever heard the phrase 'quiet before the storm?'"

"Of course I have," she answered. "What, are you saying a storm's coming?"

"Oh, yes," Mycroft responded. "I think something is about to sweep us all in a raging tempest. And I can't brace this ship without your help."

Rose sighed. "Haven't I helped you enough in the past few years?"

"Well…no," Mycroft answered lightly. "Although I _do_ accredit you considerably for your assistance in the past, further defense is needed."

"So?" Rose asked impatiently.

"_So_, I highly advise you to take a full-time position in artificial intelligence for me."

"Mycroft, you know I work independently and I work as I please. You of all people should understand that."

"Believe me, Rosamond, you know I do. But if dark times _are_ coming, the three of us need to band together-"

"Hang on, you said _three_," Rose said. "You said this doesn't concern him."

Mycroft sighed. "Of course I need him too. I need both of you."

Rose sat glowering at her brother-in-law. She may have respected him, but he sure knew how to cross a line.

"No, Mycroft."

"Oh, Rosamond, be reasonab-"

"_I said_ _no_, Mycroft."

Knowing this wouldn't get anywhere, Mycroft sighed. "Very well, then."

As Rose picked her handbag off the floor and headed for the door, Mycroft stopped her. "Just one more thing."

"_What_, Mycroft?"

He picked up his pen again.

"Be careful, Rosamond Godfrey Holmes," Mycroft said.

Rose rolled her eyes at the warning. _How the Holmes boys love being dramatic._

Rose was about to ask him what he meant, but her phone, which was in her hand, illuminated with a new message. She nodded her head to Mycroft and left, reading the text as she walked down the corridor.

_Found Soo Lin. So did the killer._

_-SH_

With the reminder of the case Sherlock was investigating, Rose began typing a response as she approached the lobby. She stopped in the middle of a sentence, however, when she saw an opportunity: all the members in the club still sat as they were, quiet as possible, minding no one's business except their own.

Pocketing the phone, she ran through the room, screaming bloody murder all the way to the entrance.

Sensing the terror of the club patrons, Rose felt a strange sense of satisfaction as she returned to the buzzing streets of London.

_Maybe now Mycroft will stop bringing me here._

* * *

**Author's Note:** So yeah, Rose can be a bit of a brat. I know I said this last time, but this time I really mean it: it's gonna pick up _a lot _more in the next chapter.

Again, reviews, favorites and follows are much appreciated!


	4. Chapter 3: Crossing Lines

**Author's Note:** I know I technically lied; I said yesterday I'd have this chapter out the next day and I'm a few minutes late. I'm really sorry, you guys! I tend to be most active at night so I decided not to start writing until it got dark and, well, this chapter took a bit longer than I thought.

HOWEVER! This chapter turned out _much _better than I thought it would. I've been dreading writing for this episode because I couldn't find a lot of room for Rose without messing with the plot, but I've actually found a few places around, _and_ I've been able to draw it out a little bit, which I much prefer to speeding through.

So that being said, please enjoy, favorite, follow, review, and all that jazz.

I own nothing but Rose.

**Chapter 3: Crossing Lines**

Still irritated by Mycroft's proposal (and overtly cryptic warning), Rose continued to text Sherlock.

_Warning: your brother is trying to meddle again._

_-RGH_

As she was hailing a cab to take her home, she got a response.

_Not new and not important. I'm trying to prove to this imbecile DI that these deaths are connected. Going to show him Lukis's and Van Coon's feet._

_-SH_

Rose furrowed a brow at the message as a cab pulled up.

She was perfectly used to Sherlock's unorthodox ways to prove his point, but he would never call Lestrade an _imbecile_ (well, not outright, at least).

_He must be dealing with a new guy,_ Rose thought.

As Rose ducked into the cab, she was about to give the cabbie her address, and then stopped.

Then, Rose made a quick (and admittedly rash) decision; a decision that she knew would break every rule she wrote in order to protect her.

"St. Bart's hospital," she told the cabbie.

She knew from context that that would be where Sherlock was headed.

As the cab took off, Rose texted one more message.

_Don't start the fun without me, I'm joining in._

_-RGH_

Rose hesitated for a second, and then finally hit "send."

She didn't know why she did it.

After so much caution Rose had gone through to stay out of trouble, and just after Mycroft just told her to be careful, she knew that this was reckless, maybe even stupid.

But she had to.

She didn't know why; what catalyzed her to go right to Sherlock, where she knew the battlefront surely awaited.

She didn't know what strange force compelled her to cross the limit she had so carefully, so clearly drawn.

But she was going insane from standing on the sidelines.

Because Rose knew, no matter how much she tried to believe otherwise, that she was meant to be in that inferno of chaos.

_With him,_ a small voice in her head said.

She knew she belonged there, because once upon a time she lived in that world.

And even when she left, she knew she'd never be the same.

As the cab approached closer to the hospital, Rose waited for a reply; a message telling her absolutely not, go home, Rose.

She waited for her strange husband to tell her to keep to her own strange life so he could do his own strange job.

But he didn't.

He didn't stop her, and that both exhilarated and frightened her.

Perhaps he didn't stop her because he was too busy, or maybe he never got her message.

Or maybe he just didn't care.

Or maybe,

Just _maybe,_

He wanted her there with him, too.

_No, his battery must have died, _Rose concluded.

* * *

Rose entered the hospital and headed toward the mortuary. Since she couldn't go in unauthorized, she opted to wait outside. If he wasn't inside already, she'd be able to enter with him. If she'd missed him, she would simply have to wait for him to come out.

Luckily, the former proved true, as she soon saw Sherlock hastening down the corridor, followed by a girl in a lab coat who kept smoothing down her sideways hairstyle, and a man in a suit, who didn't appear to be much older than Sherlock.

_Must be the new guy, _Rose figured.

"Ah, there you are, Rose, come along," Sherlock called as he passed her, barely looking in her direction.

Rose blinked a few times in confusion, but complied, receiving an odd look from the girl.

"Hang on, whose she?" the detective inspector, in turn, demanded.

While he and Rose stopped walking, Sherlock continued onward.

"Not to worry, Dimmock, Rose is with me and Lestrade is quite acquainted with her. You don't mind, do you?" he coolly called over his shoulder.

"Not at all," Dimmock said, as he was, quite obviously, checking Rose out. Rose rolled her eyes, but made no further acknowledgement of the unwanted attention. Instead, she busied herself wondering why Sherlock was handling her appearance as something so…normal.

When they descended into the morgue, the girl in the lab coat went over to a pair of cadavers, which were zipped up in body bags. As she unzipped one Sherlock stopped her.

"We're just interested in the feet," Sherlock said.

The lab worker froze. "The feet?" She repeated.

"Yes, do you mind if we have a look at them?" Sherlock asked, walking to the foot of the corpse. While the lab assistant and Dimmock looked at him questioningly, Rose knew precisely what he was doing, and shared a smug look with him.

The girl didn't argue and promptly uncovered the feet of (what was left of) Mr. Lukis, revealing a black lotus tattooed upon his right heel.

"Now Van Coon," Sherlock said, clearly enjoying this.

The woman turned and unzipped the foot of the other bag, revealing an identical insignia in the same place.

Dimmock looked at the markings, his mouth open for a moment.

"Oh, so…"

"So either these two men just happened to visit the same Chinese tattoo parlor, or he's telling the truth," Rose cut off. Sometimes, Rose understood Sherlock's impatience with others.

Sherlock nodded at Rose's words, though his eyes were fixed on the detective inspector.

"What do you want?" Dimmock asked in defeat.

"I want every book from Lukis's apartment, _and_ Van Coon's," Sherlock answered.

"Their books?" Dimmock asked, raising his eyebrows.

"Yes, that would suffice," Sherlock answered, and tuened to the woman in the lab coat. "Thank you for your help, Molly."

The lab assistant, Molly, who had been staring at him this entire time, smiled and nodded quickly.

As she was preparing the cadavers to be wheeled away, Dimmock casually walked up to Rose.

_Here we go,_ Rose thought.

"So…Rose, is it?"

Rose just scowled at him, but he didn't seem to notice, and continued.

"That's a nice name. You get out a lot, Rose?"

Before she could come up with a snarky response, Sherlock was standing over her.

"When she does, she certainly has better things to do," Sherlock curtly interceded. "Now don't you think you, yourself have better things to do than come on to my _wife_?"

Rose's heart stopped at Sherlock's words. In fact, it seemed that the whole room had been silenced by his intervention. Even Molly, who had just been wheeling the bodies out of the lab, stopped dead in her tracks.

Dimmock's mouth hung open. "I'm sorry, your _wife_?" His eyes darted to Rose. "You're _married _to _him_? You must be joking!"

Although he was behind her, she could sense him rolling his eyes. In the corner of her vision, she noticed Molly, who appeared to be shaking, with her back turned. Just as quickly, the girl hurried out.

"Do you not see the ring on her finger? People typically recognize that as the universal sign of being married. And yes Dimmock she's married to me and I would highly appreciate if you sent those books to Baker Street as soon as possible."

With that, Sherlock grabbed Rose's arm and briskly led her out of the room. As she was still regaining her ability to process thought, she looked over at Sherlock, who was looking straight ahead, his lips tightly shut and his hand still gripping her arm.

_What the hell?_

Rose and Sherlock may have been married, but their actual _relationship_ was anything _but_ romantic, and he had no real reason to be so upset if a man approached her (as uncalled for as that guy was).

By the time the two had stepped outside, Sherlock had let go of her arm but remained silent. And he was completely tense, as though he'd been holding his breath this entire time.

Finally, Rose broke the silence, but didn't ask him about the confrontation.

"So, _why_ do we need their books?" she dared ask.

"Tonight Soo Lin said the cipher is part of a book, so it would have to be one both Lukis and Van Coon owned," Sherlock asked, stepping forward to hail a cab.

When one stopped, the two climbed in, and the only words exchanged were from Sherlock telling the cabbie where to go. The rest of the ride was completely wordless; Rose on her side, gazing out the window, and Sherlock deep in thought on his, his hands pressed together before him, as usual.

Only something was _off_ with him…

Perhaps he simply noticed her displeasure and came to her aid?

Rose considered that for a moment but then shook it off.

_Why does he look so pissed off, then?_

_And why was that girl so upset?_

But Rose knew the answer to the second question quite quickly.

Finally putting the thoughts away (for now), Rose focused on more important matters.

Like the case and-

_Oh my God._

_I'm actually joining a case._

* * *

**Author's Note:** So the wheels are finally beginning to turn! I hope you guys are all familiar enough with each episode (as I'm sure you are) to recognize the subtle references I make; e.g. the press conference prank mentioned in the first chapter. I'm very much going with the grain, so to speak, but in the second series I'm going to have a _lot _more leeway to do as I want.


	5. Chapter 4: Ciphers

**Author's Note:** Hey, guys! Sorry, again for posting at a weird hour (for those of you outside the time zone I'm posting this a quarter til 1). I'm going to work on getting these chapters out when it's still light out, since I know most of you readers out there live in the States and probably have jobs and whatnot.

In this chapter I went A LOT with the dialogue in _Blind Banker_, but you'll see that I still threw in my own stuff, so hopefully you won't get bored.

And also, you guys, I really want to take this moment to thank you all: anybody who has favorite, followed, or left a review, I owe you a big fat thank-you. It truly means the world to know that there are people who enjoy my writing, and that's honestly the biggest reason I write: for people to enjoy.

I own nothing except Rose. And well, her parents, but no one really wants them anyway.

So without further ado, I give you chapter 4!

**Chapter 4: Ciphers**

Rose and Sherlock soon arrived at Baker Street. As they paid the cabbie and got out to enter the flat, Rose considered confronting Sherlock about his behavior since they'd left the morgue, but decided to wait on it a bit longer.

When they entered 221B, John was already there, but as he was just removing his jacket Rose knew he must have beaten them by mere seconds.

"It's not just a criminal organization," Sherlock said as he removed his scarf and gloves. "It's a cult."

Rose followed suit and removed her coat. "It's practically a separate world; it's got its own rules, its own leaders-"

"Its own laws," Sherlock said.

"You say laws," she snorted as she hung her coat on the door.

John sat down on the armchair as he listened.

"The brother was corrupted by one of its leaders…" Sherlock said, hanging his coat next to hers.

"Soo Lin said the name," pointed out John.

"Yes, Shan," Sherlock said, smoothing out his jacket. "General Shan."

Rose thought for a moment and tried to imagine what it must have been like in this crime ring. It clearly had charismatic, persuasive figureheads and dedicated worker bees. But Rose almost certainly knew that this underground world was a living hell. It was a world that killed and manipulated. It was a world that tore families and turned siblings against each other.

Upon this thought, Rose glanced at Sherlock. In spite of how busy and active and _alive _he appeared with this case, Rose could venture a guess at what he was thinking somewhere inside that impossible brain.

_He knows a world like this. He's seen it._

They both had.

But Sherlock had gotten the worst of it, and it almost did to him what the Black Lotus had done to Soo Lin and her brother.

But Rose knew better than to dwell on these memories.

_It's behind us, _she reminded herself, and focused on the situation at hand.

"We're still no closer to finding them," John said.

"_Wrong,_" Sherlock corrected. "We've got almost all we need to know. She gave us most of the missing pieces." Sherlock thought for a moment. "Why did he need to visit his sister, why did he need _her _expertise?"

"She worked at the museum," John answered.

"Exactly," Sherlock said.

"An expert on antiquities." And then John leaned forward. "Hmm, of course, I see."

"Valuable antiquities, John. Ancient Chines relics purchased on the black market. China's home to a thousand treasures hidden after Mao's revolution," Sherlock explained.

"The Black Lotus is selling them," John quipped.

Rose, meanwhile, had already been seated at the table, logged onto Sherlock's laptop. The boys noticed her doings just as she was logging onto the internet.

"Rose, what did I say about touching my _stuff_?" Sherlock demanded as he walked up next to her.

"What did _I _say about growing up?" Rose responded, reveling in the comfort of their familiar bickering. "And you need to change your password again," she added with a smirk.

"How on Earth do you do that?" John asked her.

"Do what?" she inquired, her eyes glued to the screen.

"Get in Sherlock's computer. Knowing him, he should be able to create walls MI6 couldn't penetrate but you don't seem to have any problems at all."

Rose rolled her eyes as she searched. "Honestly, John, I designed, founded, and now coordinate Mycroft's artificial intelligence system. I think I can get past the security on a _PC_."

John stared at her for a moment. "Wait a minute, are you a _hacker_?!"

Rose's hands froze. She swiveled her head to John. "We usually prefer the term _programmer_, young man," she admonished.

"Hang on," John protested, "I'm older than you and-" John then stopped at looked at her as though he just realized she was here.

"Wait, what are you even doing here? You said you never show up on a case!"

It was now Sherlock's turn to answer, "not important, John. Look up Crispian's, Rose."

Rose heeded his direction and clicked on the name. "Check for the dates," he said under his breath.

"Here," Rose said, pointing at two Ming vases.

"Arrived in China four days ago," Sherlock said, reading the description.

"Anonymous," Rose said, pointing at the source name underneath.

"And it doesn't give his name," Sherlock whispered, almost as though to himself. "Two undiscovered treasures from the East."

"One in Lukis's suitcase," John said.

"And one in Van Coon's," Sherlock finished.

Rose then proceeded to search _Chinese antiquities sold at auction. _From there they trio found more treasures, each selling for hundreds of thousands of pounds, all supplied anonymously.

"They're stealing them back in China one by one and they're feeding them into Britain," Sherlock realized.

John pulled out what looked to be a planner and flipped to a calendar. "Well, every single auction coincides with Lukis or Van Coon traveling to China," he said.

"So what if one of them got greedy when they were in China, what if one of them stole something?" Sherlock suggested.

"That's why Zhi Zhu's come," John realized.

Suddenly there was a light knock on the door accompanied by a little "yoo hoo." Sherlock, Rose and John all turned to see Mrs. Hudson at the door. "Sorry, are we collecting for charity, Sherlock?"

"What?" Sherlock asked.

"A young man's outside with crates of books," she explained.

"Ah," Sherlock said, straightening. "Bring them in."

Before the landlady headed back out, she noticed Rose, who was rising from her seat.

"Oh, Rose!" Mrs. Hudson greeted warmly. "It's been ages since you popped in."

Rose smiled at the kind woman. "Hello, Mrs. Hudson. No, I haven't visited in a while."

"Always so busy, the two of you," Mrs. Hudson said. "I was always more of a homebody but, my husband was quite energetic, not unlike yours," she said matter-of-factly.

"So…" John began, "you know about their…deal?"

"Of course I know they're married, John!" the landlady answered.

"And you don't find it weird at all?" He asked.

"Oh, I've told you, there are all sorts here, dear." She answered before leaving.

"Huh," John said under his breath.

* * *

The three watched as the cops carried in books (Mrs. Hudson wasn't kidding) by crate loads; some labeled "Lukis" in sharpie and the rest labeled "Van Coon."

"So the numbers are references," Rose said.

"To books?" John asked.

"To specific pages and specific words on those pages," Sherlock answered, his ever-alert eyes taking in the crates surrounding them.

"Right so fifteen and one, that means…"

"Turn to page fifteen and it's the first word you read," Sherlock finished.

"Okay, so what's the message?" he then asked.

"Depends on the book," Sherlock answered. "That's the cunning of the book code. Has to be one that they both own…" With that, Sherlock picked two different crates and began opening them.

"Okay," John said, doing the same. "Well, this shouldn't take too long, should it?"

As she opened one of the two crates Sherlock had selected, Rose thought to herself that this was, in fact, going to take a _very _long time, but chose to keep that to herself.

As they began taking the books out, everyone's favorite little Detective Inspector came in, holding a plastic bag marked "evidence."

"We found these at the museum," Dimmock said. As he held the bag up, she saw it was a piece of paper with words and Chinese numbers scrawled across it. "Is this your writing?" he asked, turning to John.

John took the bag. "Uh, we hoped Soo Lin could decipher it for us. Tough," he said.

Dimmock nodded. "Anything else I can do?" he asked, turning to Sherlock with an attempted smile. Sherlock, in turn, merely glanced at Rose, who was next to him, and then back at the cop.

"To assist you, I mean?" he reiterated.

"Some silence right now would be marvelous," Sherlock simply answered, appearing more interested in a book he took out of the crate. Dimmock stared at the detective in disbelief. He looked as though he was about to say something, but then appeared to have changed his mind, and left.

* * *

The three had searched through the books all night, and none of the words they'd found seemed to make any sense. By the time the sun came up, John looked ready to pass out at the table he was sitting at. Rose, who had been on her feet the entire night, felt a stiffness in her neck that she couldn't shake, and had a strong desire to splash her face with water.

John's alarm soon went off, and he groaned at the realization that they had actually been up all night, and he now had to go to work.

After John left, Rose and Sherlock stayed behind, only stopping once for coffee as they attempted further to crack the cipher. While Rose was ready to drop, she reminded herself that Sherlock had been on his feet the past twelve hours and showed no sign of fatigue, so she resolved that she would do the same.

Of course, anyone who had met Sherlock would know that he was anything but ordinary.

_But he's not a god._ No, she had seen the man at his worst, and knew that he was very much human.

And perfection was boring, anyhow.

As she continued to work, she watched him in the corner of her eye as he moved about the room. At some point during the night he had taken off his jacket, and the sleeves of his purple button-down shirt had been rolled at the elbow.

There was something about it, and his illimitable energy that stirred something inside her. There was something about Sherlock Holmes that made her feel…alive?

No, that wasn't it.

It was beyond that.

When Rose was around Sherlock, she felt like every inch of her was fully charged.

Like every atom inside her body went haywire, wreaking havoc upon her circuits to the point that she thought she might blow a fuse.

Realizing her thoughts were going (very) astray, she was about to turn her focus back to the work, when she remembered, again, Sherlock's words to Dimmock in the morgue.

"So…" Rose began, not exactly sure how to phrase the question. "What _was _that last night?" she asked.

Sherlock paused. "Care to elaborate?" he offered blandly.

Rose flipped to page fifteen of the latest Dan Brown book and copied down the first word. "Last night when we were in the mortuary, that Dimmock guy hit on me and you…I don't know, you acted weird."

Sherlock looked at her oddly. "I was merely under the impression that you were receiving undesired attention and decided to help…unless you're actually interested in him, in which case I wouldn't interfere although some would call that _infidelity_," he said, ending the sentence with a touch of irony.

Rose felt her ears burn and fondled her wedding ring with her thumb; a nervous habit of hers. She didn't know exactly what she'd expected him to say but there was something in his words that bothered her.

And then she realized, that she was a little hurt by his answer.

And yet, she wasn't fully convinced.

As the two had finally finished going through the books, their efforts seemed fruitless.

"A book that everyone would own," Sherlock murmured as he looked at his bookshelf, taking a dictionary. Rose followed his example and pulled out a bible. Once again, their actions were to no avail. Sherlock set the books down and ran his hands through his dark curls.

It was there that Rose saw how tired he really was.

John then walked in, home from work, appearing to be in much better spirits than when he left that morning.

"I need to get some air, we're going out tonight," Sherlock announced.

"Actually, I've got a date."

"What?" Sherlock asked.

"It's where two people who like each other go out and have fun," Rose explained.

"That's what I was suggesting, just with an additional participant," Sherlock said.

"No it wasn't," said John. "At least I hope not."

"Where are you taking her?" Rose asked.

"Cinema," John answered.

"Dull, boring, predictable," Sherlock rattled as he stepped around the crates. Rose then pulled something out of her pocket and handed it to John. "Why don't you try this?" It appeared to be a small, crumbled flyer for some circus. "In London for one night only," she said.

John chuckled. "Thanks, but I don't go to either of _you_ for dating advice," he said as he turned to get some water.

"Why not?" Sherlock asked.

"Because you to aren't exactly a conventional couple," he answered as he returned with a glass of water. "You're not even really a _couple_!"

"Hey, we can be _very _romantic with each other," Rose argued.

"Oh, really?" John asked, not appearing convinced.

"We have our moments every once in a while," she insisted.

"Yeah, like what?" John asked as he took a sip.

"Our honeymoon," Sherlock said as he examined his books for any he might have missed. "We went to Glasgow, but we never left the bedroom."

Upon hearing this, John choked on his drink.

"Oh, yes," Rose agreed, remembering the affair. "I never imagined one could be so…occupied in a hotel for four days."

John stared in disbelief at the married couple who rarely even _touched_ each other, let alone-

_Are they serious?_

"Well, I would have stopped sooner if you would've just _submitted_ more easily," Sherlock said.

"Oh you _know _I wouldn't have. I have to be the dominant. Besides, I was enjoying myself too much."

Rose's words nearly caused John to drop his glass. _He seriously wasn't hearing this._

"But I told you, _Xerxes _is not a word, it's a name." Sherlock protested.

"You know it's a word, and you just said that because you didn't want me to get all those points!"

"It wouldn't have mattered, because I was already winning!" Sherlock said.

"And you didn't want me to beat you!"

"Wait," John interrupted. "Are you two saying you spent four days in a hotel room...playing _Scrabble_?"

Sherlock and Rose, who had seemed to have forgotten him during their argument, turned their heads toward John. They nodded at him, the look on their faces suggesting he had just asked them if they breathed oxygen on a regular basis.

_God, these two are weird._

"Okay, I'll tell you what: I'll take her to this circus thing if it means I get away from you two," John decided.

They just nodded at him and continued bickering.

"Okay, you lovebirds enjoy yourselves," John called, though he doubted they heard him.

* * *

"Well, maybe we should have just brought a dictionary," Sherlock snapped.

"No, because if we did, you would say the _dictionary_ was wrong, because you are _always_ right!" Rose said.

"Well it probably wouldn't matter because you probably would've forgotten it."

"Excuse me, but I was trying to get some work finished and I'm sorry I'm not a bloody acrobat!"

Sherlock stopped.

_Acrobat._

Sherlock clasped his hands together.

"Oh, I've been so stupid!" Sherlock said.

Rose folded her arms. "Well, I'm glad to see you own up for once," she said.

"No, no, not that," Sherlock said, pulling out his mobile. "Zhi Zhu is an _acrobat, _Rose. And that circus is _Chinese_."

Rose's eyes widened at the man as he quickly dialed a number. "Who are you calling?" she asked as he put the phone to his ear.

He didn't answer, though, because the person on the other line had apparently picked up.

"Yes, hello. I reserved two tickets for tonight and I would like to add two more. Holmes. Yes. Wonderful, thank you."

Rose grinned at Sherlock, understanding his plan.

"Mrs. Holmes," he said. "How would it suit you to go on a _date _this evening?"

Rose smirked at the proposal. "It would suit me _quite _well, Mr. Holmes."

* * *

**Author's Note: **So they're kinda cute, right? In a really weird way…

I'm a little nervous with how I'm writing Sherlock—is anyone finding him too out of character or is it good? Please let me know what you think, because developing him is my biggest concern right now.

Judging how it looks now, I should just need one more chapter and then I'll move on to _The Great Game _AND EVENTUALLY THE SECOND SERIES! Which I'm clearly very excited for, because I plan to have _a lot _of fun with it.

Until chapter 5, you guys! :3


	6. Chapter 5: The Date

**Author's Note: **Hello again, you guys! Here's chapter 5, and let me tell you right now that it. Is. Long. I suppose could have easily divided this chapter into two, but I figured this kind of balances things out since I'm going to need a few days planning _The Great Game_.

Anyway, I wanted to take this particular moment to give a special shout-out to a couple reviews I couldn't PM:

**Jane S: **I usually feel the same way about re-writes since we all know what happens, but I've been very lucky finding spaces for Rose to fit. And I never really considered a specific actress, but OH MY GOSH, Eva Green _would _be perfect: very elegant, and very mysterious! And I'm very excited to get to Irene Adler, I already have a couple of ideas for that episode.

**adri:** Thank you do much! I have precisely the same issue with other Sherlock fanfics; that's one of the reasons I wanted to write my own!

Once again, thank you SO MUCH to anyone who has ever favorite, followed, and/or reviewed. You guys are why I write.

And once again, I do _not _own Sherlock. If I did, I probably wouldn't be writing a fanfiction about him, I'd be busy doing…other things.

**Chapter 5: The Date**

Rose and Sherlock soon arrived at the location of the circus, which was a small building adorned with red paper lanterns. As they entered into the lobby where the box office was, they spotted John at the window pulling out his wallet. Standing next to him was a brunette woman who was, evidently, his date.

"Actually I have four in that name," said the young man working the booth.

John looked up from his wallet. "No, I don't think so, we only booked two."

Sherlock and Rose then stepped forward. "And then I phoned back and got two for us as well," Sherlock said, causing the couple to turn around.

"I'm Sherlock," he said, politely holding out his hand. The woman stared at him in dismay and laughed nervously.

"Uh, hi," she said, returning the gesture. Rose then held out her own hand.

"Rose," she simply said as the woman reached to grasp it. Meanwhile, Sherlock had already walked away, as he had gotten the social conventions out of the way.

"Sarah," John's date returned.

After pleasantries were exchanged, Rose felt a bit awkward standing there with the two. John, who appeared equally uncomfortable, said, "Why don't you two…get acquainted while I asked Sherlock about…uh, a thing."

Before Rose could protest, John had already walked up the stairs.

Rose turned and looked at Sarah, who was smiling in spite of how admittedly odd this date was turning out to be. She seemed nice, though, so Rose resolved that she'd try to make up for the peculiar evening and be exceptionally polite.

"Hello, again," Rose smiled.

"Hello. Well, he's, um…" Sarah said, referring to Sherlock.

"Oh, he's _something,_" Rose kindly supplied.

"Yes…so, how long have you two been together?" Sarah asked. Rose laughed, "Oh, no! We're not…like that," she answered.

"Oh, really?" Sarah asked. "You two look like it. So how do you know each other, then?"

"We're married," she automatically answered, delivering a look of utter bewilderment upon Sarah's features.

"Oh," was all the woman said, but didn't question her further on the subject (_Smart girl)._ The two then spent the next few minutes amidst the awkward small talk between strangers, until Sarah eventually, to Rose's mercy, suggested they go find the boys. Rose gladly agreed and ascended the stairs John had recently climbed after Sherlock.

They quickly spotted the pair, who seemed to be having a heated, albeit whispered discussion.

"You want me to chase some killer while I'm trying to…"

John then paused, either because he didn't know how to word the rest of the sentence, or simply didn't want to.

"What?" Sherlock asked impatiently.

"While I'm trying to get off with Sarah," John finished, just as she and Rose approached them, to his embarrassment.

"Hey," John said, hoping she didn't hear that. "Ready?"

"Yeah," Sarah said. Either she hadn't heard them or she was pretending she hadn't.

The four entered the room where the performance was held. Like the rest of the building, it was quite small and rather old—in a charming way, Rose personally thought. The ceiling was curved, and the "stage," which was really the middle of the room, was surrounded by a circle of lit candles. The audience, standing around the illuminated ring, looked to be of less than a hundred or so people.

Sherlock gazed around the venue; he and Rose standing side-by-side with their backs to John and Sarah. "You said circus. This is not a circus," John whispered over his shoulder to Sherlock. "Look at the size of this crowd, Sherlock, this is…odd."

"This is not their day job," Sherlock quietly reminded him.

"Oh, right, sorry, I forgot they're not a circus, they're a gang of international smugglers," John hissed.

The two stopped talking at that point, as the soft sound of drums and the dimming of lights announced the beginning of the show. Sherlock and Rose turned to face the stage. As they were both quite a bit taller than Sarah and John, they had no trouble peering over their heads.

After a few seconds, a woman, wearing traditional Chinese attire with her face painted white, entered the stage, gesturing at the drummer to stop as she reached the middle of the circle. The drums then changed to a lower-pitched rhythm.

The woman then moved to something large: enveloped in a purple cloth. She removed the cloth, revealing some sort of mechanism. With practiced showmanship, she took what looked to be a spear, and held it out for the audience to see, and inserted it into the contraption's front. Then, she pulled a feather ornament from her elaborate headdress, presented it to the audience as she did with the spear, and dropped it in a silver bowl on the back end of the device. The tiny hairpiece caused the machine to shoot the spear, with a sound that resembled a snapping rubber band. The sharp weapon fired and, with an alarming amount of force, hit a wooden board. This caused most of the audience to gasp—all but Sherlock and Rose; both of whom recognized this type of performance.

The collective state of surprise was followed by applause as another performer, this one dressed as a masked warrior, entered.

The warrior held up his arms, allowing two members of the show to wrap him in an intricate set of chains.

"Classic Chinese escapology act," Sherlock murmured to his three companions as the performer was being bound to the board the spear had recently hit.

"The crossbow's on a delicate string, the warrior has to escape his bonds before it fires," he continued as the white-faced woman placed another spear into the machine. Meanwhile, the workers had finished tying up the warrior.

As the Chinese woman watched the warrior with a solemn face, the drum beats picked up, and was joined by the sudden clash of cymbals, which caused Sarah to cry out and grab John's arm. The two chuckled as Rose, who hadn't even flinched, rolled her eyes at the woman's skittishness.

But then…Rose wondered for a moment what would've happened if _she _had grabbed _Sherlock's _arm.

She quickly put the trivial thought aside.

The decorated lady then pulled a dagger from the basket that had been holding the spears, and presented this object, as well, to the audience.

"She splits the bag, the sand pours out. Gradually the weight lowers into the bowl," Sherlock explained in a lowered tone, the woman's actions matching his narration. Although Rose had seen this type of performance numerous times, she found that she couldn't focus on anything except for Sherlock's voice. It was as rich and smooth as velvet, making her shiver. On top of that, she was standing close enough to him that there arms were touching all the way from their shoulders to their elbows. This proximity of being both too close and not close enough, combined with his deliciously deep voice, made Rose feel intoxicated.

As the weight was beginning to lower, the masked warrior cried out as he writhed in his chains. He soon got one out, his cries accompanied by the jingle of chains.

He then freed the other. As the weight approached ever closer to the silver bowl, he worked at the chain secured around his neck.

Sarah anxiously gripped John's arm as the performer struggled with the lock.

Finally, as Rose knew he was trained to do so, the warrior escaped his confines right as the weight hit the bowl, ducking out of the way just as the spear hit its target.

The small audience applauded in relief and awe. The warrior bowed and exited the circle. While the audience continued clapping, the painted lady returned to the center of the circle. She raised her arm. The crowd silenced, and the lady announced, "ladies and gentlemen, from the distant moonlit rivers of the Yangtze River, we present, for your pleasure, the deadly Chinese bird spider."

The audience applauded once more as an aerial acrobat emerged from the ceiling. Rose watched the performer, she, too, in awe, for a few moments. She then wondered if this was the killer.

She turned to ask Sherlock, but realized that he'd disappeared.

She gazed around the darkened room, but saw no sign of him.

Just as she was about to tell John, she noticed movements behind the curtain overhead; they were quick and jerky, as though a person kept getting pushed against it. If Rose hadn't known any better, it almost seemed like two people were fighting-

And then she sighed in besetment, realizing what was going on.

_Oh, Sherlock._

She knew he couldn't help wandering, but did he really have to investigate by himself?

Before Rose could point him out to, the curtains flew open as Sherlock fell through. As Rose's annoyance with the man quickly dissolved into worry, the performer, who had evidently pushed Sherlock over the parapets, jumped out after him.

Although she knew Sherlock could hold his own in a fight, she and John ran forward to help him. As John blocked one of the performer's blows, Rose rushed to help Sherlock up. Meanwhile, she saw the performers fleeing. As Rose turned to go after them, something heavy struck the back of her head, causing her to crumble to the ground.

_Damn, _she thought, as the room spun around her but luckily, didn't go black. _I'm really slipping. _

She soon lifted her head to find the room cleared of everyone except herself, Sherlock, John, Sarah, and the initial attacker who, to Rose's surprise, had been knocked out by Sarah.

_Not such a little mouse after all, _she thought, still on the floor.

John, realizing Rose had gotten hurt, rushed forth to help her up. "Are you alright?" he asked, genuinely concerned.

"Yeah, I think so. One of those performers must have knocked me over the head."

As John still looked worried, Rose softly reassured him. "I'm fine, John," and then added, "I've been hit worse before."

Before John could ask her what she meant by that, Rose turned to Sherlock and saw him remove a slipper from the performer's foot, revealing the mark of the Black Lotus. Sherlock smiled at proof that he was right about this place.

As glad as she was that they were on the right track, Rose felt…odd, somehow.

She felt a dull pain, separate from the one throbbing at the back of her skull.

For some reason it bothered her, that it was John who helped her up and not Sherlock.

It was the same way she felt earlier, when he answered her question about confronting Dimmock.

"Come on, let's go!" he called, and they all hurried out.

While John called Scotland Yard to report the incident, Sherlock touched Rose's shoulder. She looked up at the man in surprise, for this was an unusual gesture coming from him.

"Are you alright?" he asked softly.

For reasons unknown, anger bubbled inside the woman, and her eyes narrowed. "I'm fine," she snapped lowly. Though she kept her eyes forward, she felt his gaze linger on her for a few seconds, until he finally looked away.

_What the hell has gotten into me? _She wondered. _What's gotten into _him_?_

* * *

The group got to Scotland Yard, where they found the detective inspector.

"I sent a couple of cars," Dimmock said as they walked through the headquarters. "The old hall is totally deserted."

"Look, I saw the mark at the circus," Sherlock insisted. "That tattoo we saw on the two bodies, the mark of the Tong."

"Lukis and Van Coon were part of a smuggling operation," John said. "Now, one of them stole something when they were in China, something valuable."

"These circus performers were gang members sent here to get it back," Rose said.

"Get what back?" Dimmock asked dubiously.

The group was quiet for a moment, until John finally admitted, "we don't know."

"You don't know?" Dimmock echoed.

_God, I hate this guy._

"Mr. Holmes," the cop sighed, sitting down. "I have done everything you asked. Lestrade, he seems to think your advice is worth something. I gave the order for a raid. Please tell me I'll have something to show for it, other than a massive bill for overtime." Rose wanted to scream at the man's idiocy and remind him that he was the one who thought a murder was a suicide, but knew that wouldn't get them anywhere.

* * *

The four returned to Baker Street. The cab ride had been silent and Rose could feel Sherlock's frustration.

_Why couldn't people just _think?

"They'll be back in China by tomorrow," John said as they entered the flat.

"No, they won't leave without what they came for," Sherlock said as he carelessly laid his scarf and coat over one of the book crates, his eyes indicating depth in thought. "We need to find a hideout, a rendezvous." He approached the mirror over the mantle, which was covered with pictures and evidence from the case. His eyes fell on the picture of the brick wall. "Somewhere in the message it must tell us."

"Well," said Sarah, "I think perhaps I should leave you to it."

While John said something along the lines of "no, no, you don't have to go…you can stay…" Sherlock's response sounded more like "yes, it would be easier to study if you left now." Rose, on the other hand, didn't care whether the woman stayed or left, as the combined sound of their voices, amplified by her worsening headache, caused her to cringe in pain.

"He's kidding," John said. "Please stay if you like." Sarah tugged at her earlobe and smiled in embarrassment. "Is it just me or is anyone else starving?" she asked.

"Oh, God," Sherlock muttered to himself.

While John searched the kitchen for something edible and Rose examined the cipher on the wall, Sherlock busied himself looking through the other symbols on the table.

"So this is what you do, you two and John," Sarah said as she looked at the clues. "You solve puzzles for a living?"

Sherlock looked up in irritation. "Consulting detective," he curtly answered. Although Sherlock was pretty much always rude, she sympathized with him here; she didn't like this stranger looking at his work. Moreover, the ache on the back of her head was beginning to make her irritable.

"Oh," Sarah answered, and leaned over Sherlock's shoulder. "What are these squiggles?" she asked.

"They're numbers," Sherlock answered. "In an ancient Chinese dialect."

"Oh, right, yeah, well, of course I should have known that…so these numbers, it's a cipher?"

"Exactly," Sherlock answered, quite valiantly (for him, at least) trying to keep his temper.

"And each pair of numbers is a word?" she continued, apparently determined to drive the two-

_Wait, what did she say?_

Rose turned around, just as Sherlock raised his head in realization. "How did you know that?" he asked. "Well, two words have already been translated here," she said, pointing at the cipher in the evidence bag Dimmock had brought them the previous night. "John," Sherlock called. "John, look at this," he said as he was still in the kitchen. Sherlock ripped open the bag and pulled the sheet out. "Soo Lin, at the museum, she started to translate the code for us, we didn't see it," he said as John reached them.

He looked at the half-decoded cipher. "Nine…mill," he read. "Something millions?" John suggested.

"Nine million quid, for what?" Sherlock wondered, folding the paper. "We need to know the end of the sentence," he said, grabbing his gloves. "Where are you going? John asked. "To the museum, to the restoration room," he answered as he pulled on his coat. "We must have been staring right at it," he growled.

"At what?" John asked, not following. "The _book_, John, the book, the key to cracking the cipher. Soo Lin used it to do this," he almost shouted, causing Rose to cringe again, as he gestured to the folded paper. "Whilst we were running around the gallery, she started to translate the code. It must be on her desk," he said, as he hurried out.

While Sarah stared dumbfounded in his direction, John noticed Rose, who was massaging her temples. "Rose, you haven't said a word since we got back. Are you sure your head is okay?"

"Yeah, it's fine," she insisted, waving him off. John ignored her, though, and went into doctor mode. With his hand on her shoulder, he gently prodded the lump that had appeared behind her head. "It looks pretty bad, Rose; it might even be a concussion. I'll get you some ice," he said as he headed for the kitchen, but found that Sherlock had used all the ice to chill a severed hand.

He turned to Rose. "Um…" he said, pointing to the freezer. "He's chilling another experiment," she answered for him, closing her eyes in both annoyance and pain. "I'll go ask Mrs. Hudson for some."

Rose went to 221A and knocked on the door. Mrs. Hudson answered, and, before she could even explain what happened, pulled her in. "Are you alright, dear?" she asked. Rose smiled at the land lady's motherly nature. "I'm fine, Mrs. Hudson. We all had a night out and…I guess I got carried away and hit my head," Rose explained, refraining from the actual story. "Would you happen to have any ice?"

"Oh certainly, dear!" she said, all but forcing her to sit on the floral-print sofa in her den. So where's Sherlock? He should really take better care of you, you know," Mrs. Hudson lightly called from the kitchen as she heard her pop on the kettle. "He went…off again," Rose answered, not in the mood to explain her sort-of husband's actual whereabouts.

Mrs. Hudson soon re-entered, holding an ice pack and a cup of chamomile. "Here you are, love. This should help." Rose took the ice pack and rested it behind her head. "Thank you, Mrs. Hudson," she said earnestly. Growing up in a cold household with a mother who spent more time shopping and going to book clubs than showing affection to her daughter, Rose found Mrs. Hudson's nurturing presence refreshing, to say the least.

"Oh, it's no trouble at all, dear," the kind woman said as she sat herself next to her. "Now drink up." Although Rose hadn't intended to stay long, she felt obliged to drink the tea Mrs. Hudson had so kindly made for her.

When she finished the tea, she found that it really had helped with the pain, and rose to leave. "Thank you again, Mrs. Hudson, but I really should be heading back." Mrs. Hudson got up as well and walked with her to the door. "Alright dear, are you sure you don't need any painkillers?" she asked, opening the door for her.

"No, thank you, Mrs. Hudson. I feel better, already," she answered honestly. "Very well, then, dear. You take it easy."

"I will," she said. Just as the land lady began to close her door Rose stopped her. "Mrs. Hudson," she said.

"Yes?"

Rose paused a moment and then said, "nothing I'm just…glad Sherlock has you."

Mrs. Hudson smiled. "I'm glad he has you, too, dear," she answered, and closed the door.

Rose frowned at her words. He _did _have her.

But she didn't have him.

* * *

The minute Rose entered 221B, she had the feeling that something wasn't right.

"John?" she called, still holding the ice to her head. "Sarah?" She crossed the living room and went into the kitchen. She was about to call again, when she stopped, seeing the cipher on the window.

The ice fell from her hand.

_Oh, no._

She then heard the door swing open, and was alarmed until she heard Sherlock's voice. "John! Rose!" he called out excitedly. "I've got it. The cipher, the book. It's the London A to Z that they use-"

He stopped when he entered the kitchen, seeing only Rose there, whose eyes were still fixed upon the windows. He saw them too. She turned to him and saw his eyes wide with distress. "I stepped out and then they were gone," she explained.

His eyes darted around. "Tramway," he said to himself as he rushed to the bookshelf, pulling out a map.

"Sorry?" she said.

He quickly opened it up and laid it on the table, and pointed at Kingsway. "There, that's where they are. I have to hurry-"

Before he could take off once more, she grabbed his wrist. "I'm coming with you," she said, her voice filled with resolve. Sherlock smiled; his blue eyes luminous. "Well let's go then."

On the cab ride there, Sherlock explained to her how he found the cipher, and what the Black Lotus was looking for. As they neared their destination Sherlock quickly paid the driver and jumped out, Rose right behind him. Then, the two ran to the tunnel as fast as they could.

When they entered the tunnel, Rose could see shadows cast off by bonfires. Any passerby would have assumed it was only a group of homeless people arguing. "I'm not Sherlock Holmes!" she heard John shout as it echoed back to them. "I don't believe you!" yelled a strangely familiar voice, who must have been General Shan.

"You should, you know," Sherlock called. "Sherlock Holmes is nothing at all like him." At the sound of someone readying their gun, Rose quickly pulled Sherlock's arm to hide with her behind a dumpster. "How would either of you describe me?" he asked, addressing Rose and John. "Resourceful? Dynamic? _Enigmatic_?" Though she knew he couldn't see it, she rolled her eyes at him.

_Romantically inept? _She considered. _Arrogant?_

"Late?" John, who was tied to a chair, suggested.

That worked, too.

"That's a semi-automatic," Sherlock continued, referring to the woman's gun. "If you fire it the bullet will travel at over a thousand meters per second."

"Well?" Shan called as a heavy-set gangster came up to them. Desiring retribution for her rather embarrassing injury earlier, Rose grabbed a fire extinguisher and hit him on the head with it.

"Well," Sherlock continued as she took care of the henchman. "The radius curvature of these walls is nearly four meters. If you miss, the bullet will ricochet," he said as they moved closer to where John and Sarah were tied up. "Could hit anyone," he finished. "Might even bounce off the tunnel and hit you." Rose then ran to one of the fire pits and knocked it down while Sherlock went to untie Sarah, who had been held hostage by the crossbow. However, another gangster came up behind him. Before she could warn him, the gangster began to strangle Sherlock with what Rose could've _sworn_ was the silk from the acrobat performance.

Rose ran to help him, but was stopped by another man from behind, who wrapped his arms around her. He was sloppy, though, and she was able to elbow him sharply in the chest, making him release her and stumble back. Rose turned and took the opportunity to punch him in the eye. The man roared in anger struck her hard in the jaw. Rose winced for a moment but shook off the pain before dodging a second blow. She then proceeded to knee him in probably the most _vulnerable_ area belonging to a man's anatomy, causing him to keel over. Picking up a two-by-four that had, quite conveniently, been laying at her feet, Rose gave the man a final blow to the temple, causing him to fall at last.

Rose looked up and saw Sherlock still struggling with the other henchman and Sarah was still tied up, while there was only seconds left on the crossbow. John, however, who was also still tied to his chair, had somehow managed to scoot up to Sarah, and kicked her chair out of the way just as the spear was being fired. The spear, luckily, hit the man who had assaulted Sherlock.

As the man hit the ground, Rose, who just realized she had spent this entire time dumbly standing where she was, rushed forward to help Sherlock with the cloth around his neck.

She untied the silk from his neck, and he gasped for breath. Panting from both the excitement and lack of oxygen, Sherlock steadied himself by gripping her shoulders. Rose automatically rested her hands on his arms, and the two made eye contact.

Rose didn't think it possible, but somehow, her heart managed to pound even faster.

His eyes, still shot with adrenaline, rested on the bruise forming upon her jaw. To her disbelief, he gently reached up and touched the spot, his eyes filled with…_worry_?

_Sherlock… _was the only thing her mind could manage.

"I'm fine," she finally said, her voice barely above a whisper. "How about you?"

He let out a single laugh. "I'm fine."

The two parted and looked up when they heard the rapid fall of footsteps.

_Shan got away._

But that wasn't important right now.

Sherlock bent down to untie a traumatized Sarah, assuring her that everything was alright as Rose went to untie John.

"Don't worry," John said to her. "Next date won't be like this." At those words, Sarah was at least able to manage a smile through her shaky sobs.

Sherlock called Dimmock, telling him that this time they actually caught members of the gang. While they waited outside for them to come, Rose spoke up.

"Well, not that this wasn't fun or anything, but I think I'd better make myself scarce before the reporters arrive. Wouldn't want my name coming up."

"Hang on," John said. "You go with us chasing members of an underworld crime circle and just leave like it's _nothing_?"

"What did you think would happen, John?" she asked as the pain began to return to her head.

"I dunno, for a minute I just thought…the rules had changed for you."

Rose thought for a minute.

_Had they?_

"John," Rose said softly. "I needed this, I really did. But I still have to stay out of trouble."

John stared at her. "Then what was all this for? What about your front row seat?"

Rose smiled sadly and then glanced at Sherlock, who had been silent, this whole time. He, too, seemed curious about what she had to say.

She looked back at John. "Remember how I said a front row seat to watch Sherlock Holmes is the second best thing?" she asked. John nodded.

"Well, it's also the worst."

It was so frustrating, so excruciating to constantly watch Sherlock chase bad guys from the sidelines. But it was where she had to be, where he needed her to be.

And she could never look away.

Because she knew that she would always have to be the power behind the throne.

But she then looked at Sherlock, her eyes pleading.

_Ask me to stay,_ she wanted to say. _Don't make me go._

He looked back at her calmly. "You were never here," he promised. Although she knew this was what they _really_ needed him to say, those words left her with an empty feeling. In spite of it, she forced a smile. "Expect a deposit in your bank account tomorrow," she reminded him.

"Thank you," was all he said.

As she turned around, John called out, "you know, you should really get that head of yours checked out, plus that bruise on your jaw."

Rose, who was still walking away, called out, "I know how to treat a concussion, _Dr. Watson_. And I told you, I've had worse."

Though John knew her words were meant to be reassuring, there was something in the last part that bothered him.

_What does she mean, she's had worse? _He wondered as she headed for the main road to catch a cab home.

The woman was still a mystery to him.

* * *

It wasn't until Rose reached her flat that she began feeling the aftereffects of the previous twenty-four hours. Aside from being utterly exhausted, every muscle in her body ached. As she went into the bathroom to shower, she caught herself in the mirror.

The bruise did look pretty bad. Plus, the lack of sleep she received lately (although she always had trouble sleeping these days) resulted in heavy dark circles, and the overall experience left her ghostly-pale; even more so than usual.

And yet she couldn't remember feeling this alive in ages.

While she was in the shower, Rose thought about everything that had happened as the hot, steamy water soothed and relaxed her muscles. Her mind flashed through the memories from when she decided to go to the hospital, up to the time left less than an hour ago, although she wanted to beg Sherlock to make her stay with him.

_Sherlock._

She thought about his dangerous voice behind her when he told Dimmock off. She thought about him staying up all night, working tirelessly with his sleeves rolled up. She thought about him whispering in the dark when they were at the circus. She thought about how he so carefully touched her face.

She sighed, turning off the water.

She also thought about how he so off-handedly told her she _could_ be with Dimmock if she wanted. She thought about how he left her alone to investigate. She thought about nearly getting knocked out and him not noticing. She thought about him leaving her alone again, and she thought about him letting her leave.

She sighed again in frustration as she got dressed.

_What, were you expecting something else? _She asked herself.

Rose had once put a lid on all these feelings and thoughts, a _tight _lid, and she had done so well keeping them at bay. But for some reason, after all these years, they were bubbling back up again.

As she climbed into bed, she realized that she probably shouldn't be sleeping, since she had a possible concussion. No matter, anyhow; she probably wasn't going to sleep, anyway. She was still swimming in adrenaline.

She continued thinking about the day, and sighed again, but this time contentedly.

In spite of the confusion and bitter feelings, she knew that good came out of this case.

She slipped the leash, albeit just this one time, and she got to go to battle (with him), and she felt _alive_.

On top of that, Rose saw that Sherlock had found a real friend in John Watson.

That made her happier than anything else.

Rose lied there, staring at the ceiling, and smiled to herself.

_This was definitely the best date ever._

* * *

**Author's Note:** Oh, the bitter-sweetness…

As you can probably guess, this was the first time I've ever written any kind of fight scene (this whole kind of writing is new to me in general). I plan to do research watching action movies next time I write one.

I'll be back in a few days with chapter six! And in the mean-time, let me know what you like/don't like (seriously guys, don't be shy).

PS, does anyone have a specific song/artist that this story reminds them of? I've listened to a lot of Muse, myself, but I'd love to hear input from you guys! Nothing like a good soundtrack to inspire! 3


	7. Chapter 6: The Hive

**Author's Note: **Hey, guys! I'm finally back!

Sorry I've taken so long to update, but life's been getting in the way and I _have _been a little busy, although I'll admit I kind of procrastinated on this.

As excited as I am to be one step closer to all the fun stuff in series 2, I've realized that this episode might actually be harder for me than _Blind Banker _was, which I was kind of afraid of.

So I'm sorry if this chapter is a bit uneventful, but we do see some important revelations, as we do get a glimpse of Rose's past in just a second.

I'm also sorry for my obvious lack of knowledge when it comes to technology and the geography of London. O_o

Still, I really hope you enjoy this chapter! It starts around the beginning of _The_ _Great Game_.

Sherlock belongs to Moffat, Gatiss, and the rest of BBC.

**Chapter 6: The Hive**

_He was so beautiful it nearly hurt to look at him._

_His eyes were the first thing to captivate her. They were so blue, so clear, and yet bottomless. They always shone with the promise of new adventures; the promise of freedom._

_Yes, it was those eyes that had first made her run away with him._

_But there was more: it was like he was golden. His tanned skin practically shone from beneath, and his blonde curls were, as usual, tousled and parted to the side, brushing against his brow that always arched just a little whenever he flashed that crooked, cunning grin._

He's the opposite of him, _Rose thought. _

_It was true; this golden man and Sherlock almost perfectly personified day and night._

Sherlock, _a voice in Rose's head suddenly screamed. _

_It still hurt to think about him; that was why she generally tried not to._

The night's over, _she reminded herself._ This is the day. This is my life.

_And yet, although this man possessed such angelic beauty, she knew he was, by no means, of heavenly origin._

_Cyril Sinclair was one of the most dangerous men in the world._

_And there was no place Rose would rather be than by his side._

_But she had to focus on the task at hand, and returned her attention to the laptop sitting in front of her. "I'm nearly there," she called to him._

_He didn't look up from where he was sitting, but grinned to himself: a sign that he heard her._

_Her fingers moved across the keyboard so quickly they nearly blurred, and she could feel herself beginning to sweat purely out of concentration._

_Just a little further and-_

"_I'm in," she announced._

"_Wonderful," he answered, springing from the armchair he had been seated in. He walked over and looked over her shoulder, gazing at her work._

"_We now have access to every government official in the country," she said, flashing him a grin. "What shall we do, now?"_

_Cyril closed his eyes and breathed in slowly. "I say," he drawled, his faint accent hinting his Louisiana roots. "We bring in the merchandise—tomorrow. Tonight, we celebrate." _

_And with that, he scooped her up in his arms and carried her across the hotel room, dropping her on the bed. As he crawled on top of her, he kissed her passionately on the mouth._

_As he left a trail of hungry kisses from the corner of her mouth to her neck, she remembered that there was one place she liked more than being by his side…_

Rose woke with a start.

She had fallen asleep, after all and, checking her phone, realized that she had slept nearly a day and a half.

She climbed out of bed, still trembling from the dream.

_And here I've been trying to put it behind me,_ she thought, _and I'm still having nightmares like a child._

For although there was nothing obviously threatening about it, that was precisely what it was: a nightmare. Even worse, it was something that had actually happened—it was a memory her mind was unconsciously resurfacing.

It was an image of someone she once was, and someone she once loved, and something she once believed in.

Now it chilled her to the core.

_It's been five years, _she reminded herself. _It's all in the past._

Shaking off the memories, Rose suddenly realized it'd been two days since she had eaten anything, and was now ravenous.

As she passed through her dining room, she opened her laptop, which had been sitting on the glass table. As it booted up, she went into the kitchen find something to eat.

Once she returned to the dining room with the leftovers she'd just heated up, she sat down and searched "The Science of Deduction" on her internet browser. Although he was likely exhausted, Rose knew that Sherlock slept as rarely as she did.

She was perplexed, however, to see that Sherlock had not logged the new case onto his website. Instead, he added a link titled "The Blind Banker" and under it said, "See my colleague, John Watson's summary of the case."

Her brow furrowed. She remembered John once mentioning he kept a blog, but she didn't think it had much to do with Sherlock. Rose clicked on the link, which led her to John's site. From there, she read a full narration of the case, and, to her gratitude, found that John had refrained from mentioning her.

Intrigued, she looked at the rest of John's entries, and found that John had basically begun dedicating this blog to the adventures he was having with Sherlock (always excluding Rose), in addition to the occasional rant; the type one usually saw on a typical blog (such as how chip-and-pin machines are inconvenient convenience). One entry that particularly caught her attention was called "A Study in Pink," which narrated the first case John had embarked upon with the consulting detective. As she scanned the article, Rose's eyes fell on John's description of Sherlock: "It's no use trying to hide what you are because Sherlock sees right through everyone and everything in seconds. What's incredible, though, is how spectacularly ignorant he is about some things."

Rose chuckled to herself, both at John's evident disbelief and, admittedly the truth in his words. She read on:

"In so many ways, he's the cleverest person I've ever met but there are these blank spots that are almost terrifying."

Rose wasn't too surprised by the fact that Sherlock neither knew who the Prime Minister was nor the basics of the solar system's functioning; she understood (essentially) how Sherlock's brilliant mind worked, and she knew he only stored the useful things.

Once she finished eating, Rose closed her laptop and decided to go get some work done—one of the perks of being a professional freelancer was that you got to pop in to work whenever you wanted, as long as you did it well.

And no one did Rose's work better than her.

After Rose rinsed her plate, she took a shower, dressed in a crème-colored white ruffled blouse, black slacks and red pumps. She then curled her hair and pinned it up, and applied her makeup as usual: with black cat-eye liner and red lipstick. Though she knew she didn't really have to, Rose took a strange amount of pride in dressing nicely. Besides, she found it all rather centering, as she still felt a little shaken from the replay of recent events, particularly the dream.

As Rose was about to walk out the door, she looked back at her flat, thinking to herself, not for the first time, that it was far too big for one person. She'd never move into a smaller place, though, since she spent so little time at home, anyway, and a move felt like too much of a hassle.

_I could get a flat-mate of my own, _Rose pondered as she walked out, locking the door behind her.

_Or maybe a cat…_

* * *

After stopping to grab a coffee, Rose reached the Westminster building where Mycroft stationed most of his operatives.

Mycroft's "freelance business" expanded more widely than anyone would guess, and more so than he would ever let on.

She entered the lobby, which looked like that of any typical office building: it was quite spacious and relatively clear of people, save the man at the front desk and the security guards standing at the doors on either side.

"Hello, Roger," Rose casually greeted the man at the desk as she flashed him her badge.

Roger looked up in surprise. "Mrs. Holmes. It's been a while since you've popped in around here," he said as he waved her through, motioning for the two security guards to let her pass. Rose simply nodded, and continued through the hall until she reached the elevator, which opened to release a group of black and gray-clad men, nodding respectfully in her direction as they exited. They knew who she was.

Rose stepped in, grateful to be the only one entering. She then turned to the wide array of buttons, her index finger running down them until it reached the one at the very bottom, the one labeled _restricted._ This button was the only one that had a fingerprint scanner next to it.

Rose pushed the button and then pressed her thumb against the scanner. Once the scanner flashed green, the elevator proceeded to make its descent until it reached its destination: the Hive.

During World War II, the Hive was originally one of Churchill's few remaining secret bunkers. A few years back, however, Mycroft had turned the wide subterranean hall into the working quarters for the operatives of his artificial intelligence division.

Basically, this was a cave for Britain's best computer nerds.

And boy, was it Candy Land.

Either side of the hall was lined with rows of tables, where the operatives worked on their state-of-the art equipment, as busy as a buzzing colony of worker bees (hence the place being called "the Hive"). At the very end of the hall was one desk, which was significantly bigger than the others, and on the wall in front of it several large touch-screen computer monitors were mounted, the biggest placed in the center.

Those toys were just for Rose.

"Hello, bees," Rose dryly greeted as she walked to her station.

Though most remained with their eyes trained on their screens, two or three did look up, startled by her appearance.

Despite being the queen bee, Rose really didn't come in very often.

Once she reached her desk, she set down her cardboard coffee cup, removed her messenger bag, and pulled out her laptop. She then hooked it up to the main monitors, and began updating and reprogramming their security systems.

After about an hour of working, however, the Hive received an unexpected (and frankly undesired) visitor.

Mycroft Holmes stood at the entry, his umbrella in his hand, as he waved to Rose.

Though Mycroft understood that computers were highly practical and completely necessary for the sake of moving forward, he wasn't personally fond of them, and looked rather uncomfortable surrounded by so many.

"Ah, Rosamond," he called, motioning her toward him.

Rose marched over. "This must be good, Mycroft, to make you show up _here_."

"Oh, it _is,_" her brother-in-law assured, offhandedly inspecting the tip of his umbrella before looking back at her. "It's concerning your husband."

Rose sighed in frustration. "Mycroft, for the millionth time I'm not your surveillance-"

"There was an explosion."

Rose immediately stopped mid-sentence and stared dumbly at the elder Holmes.

_This couldn't…he…there's no way… _

Rose's thoughts seemed to lose function as a lump rose in her throat.

"Oh, he's alright," he said, noticing her alarm.

Upon those words Rose, realizing she had stopped breathing, sucked in a gasp of air.

_Thank God._

"I'm going to his flat to check on him, now, if you'd like to come."

Nodding, Rose hastened to her desk and gathered her things. She then re-joined Mycroft and they began to head out.

"Carry on," she called over her shoulder to the operatives. She knew it was needless, though, because even when the queen was gone, the worker bees always worked, always buzzing.

* * *

**Author's Note: **If anyone's wondering, I got a lot of inspiration for the Hive from Skyfall (which I loved). I also looked a lot to the Blog of Dr. John H. Watson and The Science of Deduction; both of which helped me _a lot _in this chapter. So, again, I've been a little stuck lately, and I still kind of am. I'm not too worried, though, because this was how I felt until I got past chapter 2; I think it's those transitional chapters that really road-block my brain, and this is one of them (I'm starting to see a pattern that I always use Mycroft when I have writer's block :P)

Anyway, I'm going to get back in the swing of this, and I'm sure the next chapter will come sooner than this one did—sorry, again, about that, guys!

But if you liked it, let me know, and if you didn't, still let me know!


	8. Chapter 7: Windows

**Author's Note: **I know, guys, this chapter took forever—again. You have no idea how hard it was for me to write this, though not necessarily because the chapter itself was hard, but I could not focus this week _for the life of me! _I daresay I struggled more with this than with the last episode, and here I thought this one would be easier!

But I have _not _been idle; I've been watching _The Great Game _devotedly, I have crazy notes scrawled all over my windows in expo marker, and I'd say I've had twenty-something cups of tea this week. And! And! I do have _quite _a few ideas up my sleeve for this episode. :) Basically, this chapter was like that awkward first dance you go through in middle school, if that makes any sense. But now that I've finally dived in, I believe I can safely say that these chapters are gonna flow out much more consistently. :)

That being said, please enjoy!

I regret to say that I do not, in fact, own Sherlock.

**Chapter 7: Windows**

Rose followed Mycroft outside as they reached his black town car. As the driver opened the door for them, Mycroft allowed Rose to get in first, him joining after.

As they were en route to Baker Street, she finally spoke up.

"Mycroft, why are you really visiting your brother?"

As she knew she questioned the man's actions in regards to Sherlock a lot (and for good reasons), she did her best to keep her voice from sounding too accusing. "He's been in direr situations before, and you didn't pop in on him _then_."

Mycroft softly breathed in, his eyes faced forward. "I _do _worry about him constantly, Rosamond," and then added with a rueful smile, "Almost as much as you do. But yes, I'll admit, I do have an ulterior motive once again."

Rose observed the man closely and, for the first time, realized how much Mycroft had aged in the last few years. He wasn't quite ready to be considered old _yet_, as he was only forty-six, but his job had clearly tired him out. Upon this realization, Rose put aside her usual hostility and remembered how much she respected this man: the man that had once saved her from her old life—and was continuing to protect her from it, every single day.

"What do you need him for?" she asked him softly.

"I need him to find something for me. I'll go into detail when we get there."

Rose nodded.

_When we get there._

Rose was suddenly with a strange aching; not a physical pain, but something somehow much more powerful.

_Sherlock._

For some reason, she longed to see Sherlock.

As they neared the building, Rose could see the house that had been blown up from the gas leak from the window, directly across the street from Sherlock and John's home. The car slowed down, as this section of the road was blocked off, littered with debris, and occupied by cops as well as a few curious bystanders.

Seeing that they probably weren't going much further, Rose yielded her patience. She hastily unbuckled her seatbelt, opened the door and jumped out.

She didn't really know why she wanted to see him so badly, as she had lately been around him more frequently than usual.

She couldn't help but wonder if it had something to do with the dream she'd had that morning, and the memories that resurfaced with it.

Discarding those thoughts, though, she made her way past the police officers. Mycroft, too, exited the vehicle, but at his own pace. Mycroft Holmes never rushed.

Rose swung open the front door, not bothering to close it, and ran up the stairs. When she reached 221B, she invited herself in, as usual.

She didn't know exactly what she expected to find. After all, she knew he'd be alright.

Regardless of any expectations (or lack thereof), Sherlock was sitting on his favorite armchair, tunelessly plucking at his violin.

Aside from the two ruptured windows, the tableau resembled this place as it always was.

He looked up when she came in, a relatively calm expression upon his face. He appeared unaffected by the incident.

Suddenly, Rose felt…odd, even awkward, like she was out of place. She imagined how she looked right now: hurrying in all flustered, her hair probably a mess, now. And for what? A pair of shattered windows?

However, upon the sight of her, Sherlock straightened and laid the instrument aside, locking his eyes with hers.

As the two trained their gazes upon each other, Rose saw a visible shift in his features. Except it was something she couldn't read, it was an emotion she'd never seen on him before.

Was it…attentiveness?

Well, he was always attentive.

It almost looked like he was waiting for her to say or do something.

It was a look that somehow amplified that alien, anxious craving inside her.

It made her want to...what?

Hug him?

Hit him?

Hold his hand?

Bite him?

She wanted to be closer to him—yes, that was the least she wanted to do right now.

But instead, she stayed where she was, staring at him, the two as quiet and still as statues. Rose had no idea how much time passed, until she realized she should say something.

"Hey," she said, and mentally kicked herself. _You can do better than that._

"Hello, Rose," he greeted evenly.

Her eyes darted around, the room. Originally meaning to just avoid eye contact, she noticed something else that was different. "John's at Sarah's?" she asked, noting the new yellow smiley face spray-painted on the wall, causing her a bitter-sweet smile. Rose knew what Sherlock was like when he was particularly bored.

"Nothing of interest, lately," he remarked, as though he read her mind. Rose's eyes then continued to scan around the flat, suddenly eager to impress him.

She noticed a Skymall magazine on the sofa and a passport on the table. _He's been traveling internationally, but for less than twenty-four hours. _She looked around more for clues, but didn't see anything else. Then, in the corner of her eye, she noticed an envelope with a stamp that had a double-cross on it. The cross of Saint Euphrasyne.

"Not even in Belarus?" Rose asked in surprise. It was certainly by no means a _Sherlock_-level deduction, but the smirk Sherlock gave her proved it to be worth something.

Before either could say anything more, Mycroft walked in, his umbrella in one hand and a folder in the other, reminding Rose why they were really there.

"Ah. Hello, little brother," Mycroft greeted with his usual, almost mechanical, cheerfulness.

"Mycroft," Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "Let me guess, it's a matter of life or death?" he guessed, then added dryly, "Must be something serious if you wanted to drag Rose out of that little cave you built her—do you really expect you can get my wife to bully me to do your bidding?" Picking up his violin once again, he then turned back to her. "What were you doing there, anyway?"

"Sherlock, don't change the subject," Mycroft said sternly, claiming the armchair across from his brother as Rose pulled up a chair of her own. "But yes, it _is _a bit of a big deal."

Sherlock nonchalantly plucked a string, just as John ran up the stairs calling Sherlock's name. He walked in, with a very clear sense of worry upon his face, until he came across the three Holmses, evaporating his worry to confusion.

"John," Sherlock greeted simply.

"I saw it on the telly, are you okay?" Sherlock's colleague asked, causing Rose to smile to herself.

It was more than assuring to know Sherlock had John.

"Me? What? Oh, yeah, fine, gas leak, apparently," he answered offhandedly, plucking another note before returning his attention to his brother. "I can't," he stated bluntly.

"Can't?" Mycroft repeated with a raised eyebrow.

"The stuff I've got on is just too big. I can't spare the time." Rose glanced at John, who, like herself, knew that Sherlock was lying to his brother through his teeth.

"Never mind your usual trivia. This is of national importance," Mycroft insisted, twirling his trusty umbrella.

Sherlock strummed his violin. "How's the diet?" he asked him, as though trying stray from the subject. Rose smirked at Sherlock. There were some things that brought out his inner child and, whether he admitted it or not, Mycroft was one of those things. Though it was often annoying, Rose couldn't help but find it rather endearing, at times.

"Fine," Mycroft answered, with a tone of warning in his voice. He turned his head to Rose. "Perhaps you could get through to him, Rosamond." At this, she noticed Sherlock raise his eyebrows in a "_what did I tell_ _you" _way.

"I only came to see Sherlock, Mycroft," she said. "Please don't pull me into this."

Mycroft sighed, but didn't press her further. She imagined Sherlock was right about why he really brought her here with him and simply knew it was a long shot. He then turned to John. "How about you, John, won't you reason with him?"

"What?" John asked, as he had seemed immersed in the destroyed windows.

"I'm afraid my brother can be very intransigent."

"If you're so keen, why don't you investigate?" He then looked up from his violin. "Or better yet, why don't you put Rose up to it? She's perfectly capable and I'm sure _you_ can keep her work a secret."

Although Rose was flattered by Sherlock's (unintentional) compliment, she felt strangely irritated that he tried to put her on the spot, especially when he knew how tempting that was for her.

"No, no, no, no, I can't possibly be away from the office for any length of time, not with the Korean elections so…" while Rose was relatively aware of his international…one might call _meddling_, and was uninterested, John and Sherlock looked up, causing Mycroft to stop himself. "Well, you don't need to know about that, do you?" he said, still twirling his umbrella. "Besides a case like this, it requires…legwork. I couldn't possibly make our dear little Rosamond do it all on her own—"

Not for the first time in her life, Rose wasn't entirely sure whether her _big brother _was being contemptuous or genuinely doting (perhaps both), but then he added,

"Besides, she's needed elsewhere; I have many tasks back at the Hive for her." While Rose suppressed a groan at the revelation that Mycroft had _homework _for her, John looked to her inquisitively.

"The Hive?" John asked.

"Classified," Mycroft, Rose, and Sherlock all said in unison. John asked no more, but simply mouthed "okay…" to himself in bewilderment.

"How's Sarah, John?" Rose politely asked.

"How was the lilo?" Sherlock asked before Rose even finished her own sentence.

"Sofa, Sherlock. It was the sofa," Mycroft corrected, checking his pocket watch. Sherlock glanced back at his flat-mate.

"Oh, yes, of course," Sherlock said.

John stared in bafflement at the Holmes brothers. "How…never mind," he said, sitting at the table across from Rose.

"Sherlock's business seems to be booming since you and he became…pals," Mycroft noted. "What's he like to live with? Hellish, I imagine."

"I'm never bored," John said.

"Good," Mycroft said. "That's good, isn't it?" With that, Mycroft rose from his seat, holding the case files. Sherlock, meanwhile, pointed his bow to him as he got up dramatically.

_Inner-child, still obnoxiously lovable._

Mycroft held the papers to his brother. Sherlock, however, kept his bow trained on him, showing no sign of taking them. Mycroft twisted his mouth, opting, instead, to hand the files to John.

"Andrew West, known as Westie to his friends, civil servant, found dead on the tracks of Battersea station this morning with his head smashed in."

"Jumped in front of a train?" John asked.

"That seems the logical assumption," Mycroft verified.

"But?" John asked.

"But?" Mycroft repeated.

"Well you wouldn't be here if it was just an accident," John said. Sherlock, who was now cleaning his bow, let out a chuckle.

"The MoD is working on a new missile defense system. The Bruce Partington program, it's called. The plans for it were on a memory stick."

Rose sighed. _A memory stick? _

John looked up from the files. "That wasn't very clever," John simply remarked, causing both Rose and Sherlock to snicker.

"It's not the only copy," Mycroft said, almost defensively.

"Oh," was all John responded with.

"But it is secret…and missing." Mycroft finished.

"And you didn't put a password on it?" Rose deadpanned, causing John and Sherlock to smirk. Mycroft, on the other hand, didn't seem to find it very funny.

"Top secret?" John asked.

"Very," Mycroft assured. "We think West must have taken the memory stick and we can't possibly risk it falling into the wrong hands." He then turned to Sherlock, who still appeared much more interested in tending to his violin. "You've got to find those plans, Sherlock. Don't make me order you."

Sherlock sighed, placing the instrument under his chin. "I'd like to see you try."

"Think it over," Mycroft reiterated, and then turned to John to shake his hand. "Goodbye, John," and with a knowing smile added, "see you very soon. Come along, Rosamond. I need to discuss your assignment."

_He's definitely giving me homework. _

Although she would have really rather stayed behind, Rose decided to cut Mycroft a little slack and cooperate, for once. Besides, she had no reason to stay.

She rose from her seat, touching the doctor's shoulder as she passed him. "Goodbye, John," Rose said. He returned the gesture with a friendly smile.

She then turned to Sherlock, but didn't approach him any closer. "Goodbye Sherlock," she said. Sherlock, however, said nothing, but wordlessly glared at her in betrayal. Rose sighed and followed Mycroft out. Behind her, she could hear him deliberately playing very bad arpeggio.

_Inner-child…just obnoxious, that time._

* * *

Once they were in the town car, back on their way to the building, Rose went ahead and asked the magic question:

"What do you want me to do?" The words left a rather bitter taste on her tongue.

As though he'd been waiting for her to ask, Mycroft promptly answered, "You were right in there about the MoD; it doesn't have nearly enough security-"

"Ironically," Rose wisecracked.

Ignoring her, Mycroft continued. "I would be very grateful, Rosamond, if you just went in and just showed those boys what to do, what with your…computers."

Rose raised an eyebrow dubiously. "You want _me _to take charge of the Ministry of Defense?"

"Oh, don't be ridiculous Rose. Think of it as a…a technical support job."

Rose felt more than a little insulted by her brother-in-law's comments.

"Mycroft, I'm a world-class computer hacker, and you want me to play geek squad?"

"Yes, that's one way to look at it," Mycroft cheerfully said, though Rose highly doubted the man even knew what she was talking about. "Oh, and, Rosamond, I know you quite ardently refused to take a full-time position, but I strongly suggest you at _least _take on more hours for me."

Rose could feel irritation bubbling inside her; she didn't even know what to say. She then looked at his umbrella; the umbrella he had with him rain or shine.

"It's not even raining," she quietly grumbled. "Why do you always carry that bloody thing around?"

Mycroft looked toward the object in his hand, as though noticing it for the first time. "Oh, I always like to be prepared for…bad weather."

Rose curiously looked up at him. "Like…a storm?" she quietly asked, remembering their conversation in his office. He nodded, understanding the true weight of her question.

"Precisely like a storm."

Rose sighed. She knew Mycroft was smart. Hell, he was the smartest of the smart. And if he said something bad was on its way, what reason did she have _not _to believe him?

She sighed deeply. "Okay."

"Okay?" he echoed.

"You know I will never take a full-time position, but if you really do need me," and she added bitingly, "_and if my country needs me, _I'll put in some more time at the Hive...a_nd _I'll show a bunch of generals how to install a password."

Mycroft smiled. Of course, he had already been smiling, but this was his _real _smile; something few people ever saw. "Thank you, Rosamond," was his only reply.

Rose shrugged. "It's not like I have anything better to do."

* * *

**Author's Note:** So that's that! As you can see, Rose and Sherlock had a bit of emotional tension in the beginning, _and _I attempted my first writing of a deduction (I always imagined Sherlock to be looking at something ridiculous as Skymall in the beginning of the Great Game). Quite mediocre, but I'll surely practice; it was really the little details like those that drove me crazy and held this chapter off!

While I'm on the subject of apologizing for shortcomings, I just want to say that I'll now shut up about getting Sherlock's character right, as many of you lovely readers assured me that I'm doing fine writing him, and I thank you for that. :)

This isn't really relevant, but I seriously feel the need right now to say how much I realize I LOVE Mycroft Holmes since I started writing this story. I don't know about any of you guys, but I would love to have "Anthea's" job. :) Like seriously, what is she typing on her phone in the first episode? Is she even working? Because sometimes I wonder if she's just texting…

Okay, that was very random, but I regret nothing! Anyway, please favorite, follow, and _review_! All of them are great, but it's especially you guys' kind words that give me that fuzzy feeling, and make me work faster. ;)

SPEAKING OF ME WORKING FASTER, I know I asked this a few chapters ago, but seriously, guys, if you know any songs or artists that remind you of this story, _please_ let me know, I'd love to have an inspiration soundtrack. :)


	9. Chapter 8: Curtain Rises

**Author's Note: **Hey, guys! New chapter.

I don't really have much to say here (I know, big shocker), but a big thank you to anyone who's followed, favorited, and reviewed! 3

Also, I'm gonna let you know now that I changed Rose's age from 29 to 32; I have no idea why I initially made her that young, when I know that Benedict Cumberbatch is 34 in this episode (and a happy belated birthday to him!).

Anyway, I hope you enjoy!

No, I do not own Sherlock. :(

**Chapter 8: Curtain Rises**

After Mycroft dropped Rose off at Whitehall, she made her way to the Ministry of Defense, where she set off instructing the I.T. workers in better means of security. The lot there wasn't too slow, as she had anticipated; they just under-estimated too much. After about an hour and a half of installing new software and instructing the group in different systems procedures (as theirs badly needed updated), she headed out to leave, until she stopped dead in her tracks, spotting an all-too familiar man, walking (or rather, marching) through the hall.

"Dad," she whispered to herself.

Of course, she shouldn't have been surprised to see her father here, as he _was _a general, and this _was _the headquarters for the MoD, a place where soldiers _did _tend to go.

As though sensing his daughter's presence, General Godfrey stopped walking, turned his head and looked at her. Although he was by no means a conversational man, he was (understandably) curious of what his daughter was doing here. After all, she didn't work here and, to her parents' knowledge, didn't work _anywhere._

Rose froze like a deer in the headlights, as she subconsciously debated between fight and flight.

As much as she would have loved to do the former, she knew it would be wiser to confront her father. If she just fled, he would have asked questions, and possibly mention to her mother later.

And her mother knowing she was here would have been much worse.

She took a deep breath and walked up to the misanthropic general.

"Hi, Dad," Rose said, forcing herself to sound casual.

"Rosamond Theodora, what are you doing here?" the general asked, skipping idle chatter.

_Oh God, he used the middle name._

"Oh, I was just helping a friend with his computer," she said, which was not _dishonest_.

General Godfrey dubiously narrowed his eyes at her. Ever since the time Rosamond had "accidentally" hacked into her school's data system when she was eight, he and his wife knew she had an uncanny gift. And as she had abused said gift in the past, neither parents were, by any means, comfortable with the notion of their daughter anywhere near a computer.

"Don't worry, Dad," Rose said, noticing his anxiety. "I was just helping him set up some firewalls."

Thought the general didn't look entirely convinced, he nodded at Rose, and turned to walk away, before Rose stopped him.

"Please don't tell Mother."

Edwin Godfrey looked at his only daughter.

Although his eyes were still narrowed, they appeared just a little less callous.

Regardless of what Rose was doing here, he knew Edith would be sure to make a fuss and give _both _of them an earful.

"Not a word," he promised, and went on his way.

* * *

Rose returned to the Hive, where she worked on enhancing surveillance systems. It was there she stayed for about four hours, working listlessly, until she received a text:

_The show is going to start soon. Meet John outside Mycroft's office._

_-SH_

Rose read the message five times.

_The show?_

Although the Diogenes Club was Mycroft's preferred location of work, he was generally more likely to be in his office at headquarters, where he was more accessible to visitors (Rose was the only non-member she knew of who was allowed in the Club). It was for this reason that Rose guessed John would be there right now.

And, for reasons that escaped her, Sherlock wanted Rose to meet John so that she could join them.

Regardless of the cryptic meaning of Sherlock's text message, she knew that if she joined John (who was quite conveniently close) she would probably fall back down the rabbit hole; just after she promised herself she'd stay out of trouble.

But this time he actually _wanted_ her around.

Maybe he needed her help.

As the other Hive operatives worked around her at their computers, Rose silently deliberated to herself.

_I did just tell Mycroft I'd do more work for him…_

_You've been working for hours!_

_But I said I'd stay out of trouble…_

_Wouldn't be the first time you broke a promise._

_Could be dangerous…_

That was all the reason Rose needed to make her decision.

After gathering her things, Rose left the Hive, and went into the elevator that would take her upstairs.

* * *

"Yes, he's investigating now," John said, sitting in the chair across from Mycroft, noticing him wince in pain. "He's investigating away."

_Sherlock was right, _he realized, remembering what his flat mate had said about Mycroft having a dental appointment.

_Of course he was._

"I just wondered what else you could tell me about the dead man."

Mycroft leaned back against the front edge of his desk. "Twenty-seven, a clerk at Vauxhall Cross, MI6," he began, smiling matter-of-factly upon the mentioning of MI6. "He was involved in the Bruce Partington program in a minor capacity. Security checks, a-okay, no known terrorist affiliations or sympathies. Last seen by his fiancée at 10:30 yesterday evening."

"He was found at Battersea, yes?" John asked. "So he got on the train?"

"No," Mycroft answered. John looked up.

"What?"

"He had an Oyster card," he said before wincing in pain again and pressing his hand to his jaw. "But it hadn't been used."

"He must have bought a ticket."

"Hmm. There was no ticket on the body."

John paused. "Then…"

"Then how did he end up with a bashed-in brain on the tracks at Battersea?" Mycroft supplied. "That is the question, the one I was rather hoping Sherlock would provide an answer to."

John nodded, looking down at the papers in his hand.

"How's he getting on?" Mycroft asked.

John looked up again. "He's fine, and it is going very well," John said, slightly stuttering at the lie. "You know, he's completely focused on it," he finished, giving a smile in order to be more convincing.

"Alright then," Mycroft said. "If that'll be all…"

"Oh, yes," John said, quickly getting up to shake Mycroft's hand.

Once the civility was exchanged, John nodded and left the office.

_Root canal,_ John thought, walking down the hall. _So that must have been-_

"You respect him," Rose said behind him, making him jump.

He turned his head and realized that he had just passed the woman, who was leaning against the corridor wall.

"Rose?" John asked, steadying his startled heartbeat. "…What…?"

Rose smirked at the man. "You know, for an army doctor from Afghanistan who lives with a strange man in a house full of dismembered body parts, you sure are skittish."

"What are you doing here?" John asked, ignoring the comment.

"I work here, silly."

"No, I mean, what are you doing _here_, outside Mycroft's office?"

Rose shrugged. "Something about a show."

* * *

As John and Rose exited the building together, he explained to her all the things that had happened in the past eight hours: the pink phone with the pips, the shoes, the call, and Carl Powers. Rose listened intently as they climbed into the cab, remembering the death of Carl. Well, she remembered Sherlock.

_11-year-old Rose watched as 13-year-old Sherlock sat on his bed with his legs crossed, brooding. _

"_Why do grown-ups never listen?" he grumbled, his blue eyes intensely glaring at nothing. Rose wasn't sure whether he was asking her or himself, but she went ahead and ventured a guess._

"_Maybe it's because it scares them when a kid's smarter than them?"_

_Though he was still clearly angry, he smiled a bit at this, knowing that what Rose said was true._

_Glad as Rose was that she had made her friend smile, she, too, felt bitter. _

_She knew what it was like to have a gift, and to be alienated for it._

Rose sighed at the memory, buckling her seatbelt, as she now sat across from John in the cab. Rose watched him as he awkwardly glanced at the window.

She then realized that this was the first time that she and John had ever been together without Sherlock.

Rose smiled politely at him when they made eye contact, sitting perfectly still. Although she felt just as uneasy as he did, she was much better at hiding it.

A few minutes of awkward silence commenced, in which he had been keeping is gaze toward the passing scenery, trying not to gawk at Rose. _Seriously, Sherlock is _married _to her and he doesn't even…?_

"You never answered me, John."

John looked up at the beautiful woman, who watched him intently. "Sorry?"

"You respect my brother-in-law, no? You even put on a suit to see him, and I doubt Sherlock is _really _on this missile plan case so I imagine you tried talking him into it."

John blinked at her. _Did _he respect Mycroft? He wasn't entirely sure…

"Respecting Mycroft Holmes is nothing to be ashamed of John, even though Sherlock doesn't seem to," Rose assured him, not really needing his response. "Although," she mused, looking out the window, "there _is_ something about him that always reminded me of Mr. Bean…"

John thought for a minute. "So, _you _respect him, then?"

Rose returned her gaze to John. "Of course I do. Why wouldn't I?"

John shrugged. "It's just, you and Sherlock seem so alike, and close…"

_And yet not at all._

Rose smiled in understanding. "Yes, Sherlock and I have one or two things in common. We've been through a lot; we share quite a few nightmares." She looked out the window again, a distant expression on her face. "But we've also had our own…Mycroft got me out of mine. He didn't help Sherlock, though. But I guess, even if he tried, he probably wouldn't have let him…"

John listened curiously. It was very rare for him to hear anything about Sherlock's past.

"Who _did _help him, then?"

As though just remembering John was there, Rose's eyes flicked back to him. "Sherlock's demons aren't mine to speak of," she said softly.

"Then what about yours?" he asked. There was so little he knew about this woman. But then, that went for Sherlock and Mycroft, too.

Rose smiled sadly at him. "I've done some things in the past that I'm not terribly proud of," she said, her voice still soft.

John stared at her. Rather than answer more questions, the woman had only brought more. Before John could press further, he realized they had reached Baker Street.

* * *

John and Rose walked through the door.

"Poison," she heard Sherlock say from the kitchen.

"What are you going on about?" chirped Mrs. Hudson.

"Clostridium botulinum!" Sherlock exclaimed, slamming the table with his fists.

John and Rose entered the kitchen (just as Mrs. Hudson was scurrying out) to find Sherlock with his microscope at the table and-

_Oh, God, _Rose thought.

He was wearing the purple shirt.

Not that she minded the purple shirt, no. In fact, Rose liked that shirt. A lot.

Perhaps a bit too much.

Sherlock, meanwhile, didn't miss a beat as he noticed his flat-mate and sponsor/wife.

"It's one of the deadliest poisons on the planet," he explained. "Carl Powers!"

"Are you saying he was murdered?" John asked.

Sherlock jumped up from his chair to the kitchen sink, over which hung what Rose realized were dismembered parts of the trainers. "Remember the shoelaces? The boy suffered from eczema."

"It would have been the easiest thing in the world to introduce the poison into his medication," Rose realized, sharing his stream of thought. "Two hours later he comes up to London, the poison takes effect,"

"Paralyzes the muscles, and he drowns," Sherlock finished.

John stared at Sherlock, then at Rose, then back at Sherlock, and then moved on.

"How come the autopsy didn't pick that up?" he asked.

"It's virtually undetectable," Sherlock said. "And nobody would have been looking for it." He went over to his laptop and quickly typed the answer to his puzzle on his website. "But there's still tiny traces of it left inside the trainers."

"From where he put the cream on his feet," Rose said.

Sherlock hit "enter." "Yes, that's why they had to go."

"So how do we let the bomber know?" John asked.

"Get his attention," Sherlock said, promptly checking his watch. "Stop the clock."

John thought for a second. "The killer kept those shoes all these years."

Sherlock nodded, slightly out of breath from the excitement. "Yes," and turned to his companions, smiling. "Meaning?"

"He's our bomber," Rose said, surprised at how quickly she adopted the word "our."

_Our _bomber. _Our _case.

Just then, the pink phone began ringing. Sherlock rushed to answer it, putting it on speaker. On the other end, they heard a woman crying.

"Well done, you," she sobbed. "Come and get me."

"Where are you?" Sherlock asked. "Tell us where you are."

The woman (almost unintelligibly) gave her location, and Sherlock phoned Lestrade while John continued talking to the woman to calm her down.

Meanwhile, Rose occupied herself with her own thoughts. How strange, it was, that this morning when she came in to see him, he was so…_different. _But now, he didn't even seem to notice her.

Sherlock hung up the phone and glanced at Rose, as though he just realized she was there.

"Oh. Hello, Rose."

Rose suppressed her irritation.

"Hello, Sherlock."

_Why did he even invite me here?_

A few minutes later, there was a knock on the door. John went to answer it, and let Lestrade in.

"Bomb squad's on its way," Lestrade said. "Follow-up in the morning?"

Sherlock nodded.

"Right…oh, hey, Rose," he said, noticing the woman in the living room.

"Hey, Greg," Rose greeted. "How's the wife?"

Lestrade cringed. "We've been trying to work things out…how's the husband?" he asked, pointedly looking at Sherlock.

Rose shrugged. "Not bored, apparently. That's always good."

John watched in interest. "Oh…so…you know about…?"

"Of course he does, John," Sherlock cut in, his arms folded. Do you really think I could solve cases for Scotland Yard with a secret wife?"

John shrugged.

"Well, I'd better be off," Lestrade said, turning to leave.

"Me, too," Rose said, following behind him.

_Why did I even come? _She wondered, embarrassed.

"So you'll meet us at the Yard in the morning, then?" Sherlock asked.

Rose stopped in her tracks.

_What?_

She looked at him over her shoulder.

"Yeah," she answered.

_What?!_

"Say…nine?" He was completely calm, as though he was scheduling to meet for lunch.

"Yeah," she quickly answered, and left before she could change her mind.

_What the hell?! _She wondered to herself as she hailed a cab. Her mind was in a feverish frenzy

_One minute he wants me around, the next he doesn't even notice me, and then he asks to have me around again. Why?_

Rose knew Sherlock was different than anyone else she knew, but he had become even more erratic than usual. He was pulling her in, and pushing her back out, and then back in.

And she couldn't fight it, even if she wanted to.

* * *

**Author's Note: **All I have to say is this: ALL HAIL THE PURPLE SHIRT OF SEX!


	10. Not a New Chapter, but Important

Hey, guys! Remember how I said these next chapters were going to start flowing out more quickly? Um…well, about that.

After a discussion with a reader, I've realized that this story is going in a direction I'm not liking: I've been so obsessed with following the show's plot to a T, that I've been lacking in plot originality, and my character has been poorly developed.

No, I'm not going to stop writing, nor am I going to completely start over; although I regret to say that I see so many missed opportunities in previous chapters in which I could've showed you more who Rose is, and give her more action, I don't think the damage is _too _bad.

In fact, I think now, during the Great Game, is the perfect opportunity to take control of the story line, and make Rose step up. I've been working on character development on what makes her _her_, and within reason, I plan to expand this episode _a lot._

So for the next few days, I'm going to be watching and mapping out _The Great Game_ and stripping it down to its gist. This way I'll look at how I can put in my own things while keeping the general plot, and I'm going to change Rose from being a bystander to an actual character. If it takes me more than a week, I'm just going to put this story on hiatus to but me some more time, but I doubt it'll come to that, granted I don't procrastinate. I already have new ideas; it's mostly a matter of how to place them. Plus, I have to finish Crime and Punishment for AP English so it would be nice to knock that out of the way. :)

So I'm sorry to keep you guys waiting longer, and I hate to put up this stupid, long note—I hate when authors post their announcements in the form of a chapter but I don't want you guys to think I bailed and there's really no other way to do so.

And once again, thank you guys so much for taking the time to read this story. Nothing gives me that warm fuzzy feeling than the fact that people actually get excited about something I wrote, and I plan to make it so much better. :)

If any of you have any ideas or input, _please _let me know!

Until then,

ScarlettSnow6


	11. Chapter 9: Masks

**Author's Note: **Hello, readers! *Walks in with hands above head, hoping to not get shot by angry readers.* Well, I'm alive, and I actually have a chapter done!

Let me tell you right now, this chapter really wasn't that hard; I've just been incredibly lazy but IT'S NOT MY FAULT! These past two (or has it been three?) weeks I've been trapped in the land of the Lotus eaters that is Tumblr. I've had an account for the past year or so, and I never really understood what all the hullabaloo was about until the other week, when I started using it the right way.

Plus, I just became strangely addicted to Animal Crossing, and I've been reading for English and theatre, and I've been catching up on The Tudors, and Supernatural…*zones out and daydreams about Dean & Cas*

Anyway, yeah, I procrastinated. A lot. But I'm gonna make it up to you guys by trying to get a chapter out every Friday (yes, that includes this Friday). That's right, you lovely folks are getting TWO chapters this week.

This chapter is mostly about Rose, as I'm trying to reveal more about her: her past, her weaknesses, her quirks, etc.

Please enjoy, tell me what you like, tell me what you don't!

**Disclaimer:** Sherlock ain't mine.

* * *

**Chapter 9: Masks**

Still in a haze, Rose stumbled into her flat, running her hand through her hair.

_What the hell is he doing? _She vaguely wondered, putting down her keys as she kicked her shoes off. _He's all but ignored me these past few years._

Well, that wasn't entirely true. He certainly didn't invite her in on cases like this, but the two were close in ways neither dared talk about. Conventional relationships (and relationships in general) just weren't their style; Sherlock had always been that way, as he had grown up in a household _far _colder than hers, and Rose was, well…broken.

Rose's thoughts continued to blur together at high speed as she headed down the hall into her bedroom, already unbuttoning her shirt. She wanted out of these clothes, she wanted her makeup off.

It was all a mask. It was how she kept up the image of someone who was put together, someone who was okay.

She let out a single humorless chuckle as she pulled her pants off. _I take from my mother._

In her underwear, she went into her bathroom to wipe her face. When she smeared it all off—the eyeliner, the mascara, the lipstick—everything, she looked at herself in the mirror. It was always strange to see this version of her: the one with no makeup. It was so strangely intimate, and yet so unfamiliar to her. She felt exposed, naked.

Upon closer inspection, Rose could see the faint frown lines forming at the corners of her mouth, and a little pair of inverted parentheses between her eyebrows. They were barely noticeable, but they were there.

_I'm getting old, _a small voice in the back of her head observed.

She knew that was nonsense; she was only thirty-two. In most eyes, she was still considered quite young. On top of that, she knew she was pretty.

But she still felt so _old._

Perhaps it was because she had wasted her youth. She was nineteen when she ran away with a pair of blue eyes and a charming accent. And she was nearly twenty-eight when she escaped his death-grip. Guess you could say she gave him the best years of her life.

She looked into the eyes of the woman in the reflection, _really _looked. Truth be told, she couldn't tell if they belonged to someone old or someone young. Yes, they looked tired, but they still had that cunning, challenging gleam to them, undeniably marking them as hers. But there was one thing for sure, and she came to terms with it as she looked away from the mirror and left the bathroom.

_I'm not okay._

_I haven't been okay in a long time, not since—_

And she looked at the dresser on the other side of her bed, where there sat a framed photo of a dark-haired woman smiling next to a golden man.

_Not since Cyril._

Cyril, the only man, the only _person_, she ever let herself fully surrender to. In a way, he had filled her teenage, John Hughes-esque fantasy of a bad boy when she met him in university. And then he set off to run away, and told her to come with him.

"_Let's be outlaws," _he said.

She couldn't say she remembered how he made her leave everything behind—abandoning her education, deserting her family (they weren't all that bad), and leaving Sherlock, but that was just what she did.

And with that, Cyril became so much more.

_They _became so much more.

They had been Bonnie and Clyde in every way. They had been a team. She so willingly gave herself to him, which disgusted her with herself to this day. She had been putty in his hands, and he always had a way of making it impossible to say no. But with every moment she spent with him, she could see more and more that he wasn't James Dean with a silver tongue.

As far as Rose knew, Cyril Sinclair was Lucifer himself.

She crossed the room to the dresser to pull out some clothes to sleep in. She peered once more at the photo of her and Cyril. She kept it as a reminder; just because the past was behind her didn't mean she could _completely _forget it.

After she dressed, she looked around her bedroom, as though for the first time in ages.

_Damn, I've let this place go to Hell._

While the rest of her flat was all but immaculate, Rose's bedroom vaguely reminded Rose of a dragon's lair: sloppy and crammed with junk she didn't need.

There were columns books everywhere, for one thing. Rose had the habit of taking books with her to bed and never returning them to her hallway bookshelf when she was done. And she was always getting new books—she rarely borrowed books because she liked making footnotes—so the number of books on the shelf seemed to always remain the same whereas those in her room grew. Also, there were clothes strewn everywhere, as Rose really just waited until she had absolutely nothing to wear before she did any laundry. On top of that, old paperwork littered the floor—yeah, she never threw that stuff away—and highlighters, pens and pencils were scattered all over the place.

Well, a very _literary _dragon's lair.

Noting to herself to clean up (one of these days), Rose left to head into the kitchen.

After eating a quick dinner, she poured herself a glass of wine and went into the living room, where she'd left her laptop. As she was about to turn it on, another thought came to mind. She _was _going to get some programming done, and maybe attempt some research on the little game Sherlock had been getting into, but thought better of it.

She was going to work to make her feel better, but she realized she needed to take herself _away _from it, just for a little while.

She got up and walked to the cabinet where she kept all of her movies, and pulled out the one that always made her feel better.

Rose popped _My Fair Lady _into the DVD player and settled into the sofa, taking a sip from her glass. Really every Audrey Hepburn movie had a way of cheering her up, but nothing really did it quite like Eliza Doolittle did.

But even when she mouthed "the rain in Spain stays mainly in the plain" in perfect synchronization to Professor Higgins, Rose's thoughts went back to Sherlock, though this time they made her smirk.

Though he really wasn't much for movies in general, let alone _musicals_, Sherlock particularly detested this one, ever since she made him watch it with her when he was eight, after she had stolen his microscope. It didn't help, either, that she had had the tendency to whistle the show tunes everywhere they went.

It'd been a while since she'd done that…

"_Ready whenever you are," he smiled from the driver's seat, with his sunglasses concealing his blue eyes. _

"_Give me five minutes," twenty-three-year-old Rose smiled, her eyes glued to the laptop as she began decoding._

"_Five? That's a bit longer than usual." Cyril said, his voice relaxed as ever. _

_Rose rolled her eyes as she continued to work. "Well it _is _a national bank, dear," she said, pretending to sound offended. "Besides, I want to check my e-mail."_

_Cyril chuckled and turned his gaze to his window. Rose smirked to herself. As often as it happened, she could never quite get over that moment of pleasure she got just from making the man laugh; it was one of her favorite sounds in the world. _

_She quickly discarded the thought and returned her full focus to the encryption she was taking down._

"_And…done. Oh, wait," Rose said before she clicked her mouse a few times. She pouted. "No new mail," she sighed before closing her computer._

"_Well that's a shame," Cyril said as he reached to get something from the back seat. "But then, you don't exactly have too many pen-pals, darlin'." _

"_Who are we today?" Rose asked, forgetting the mail._

"_I was thinking," he began, as he pulled out two rubber masks, "That you be a Cheshire cat, and I'll be Mad Hatter" as he handed her the disguise._

_She looked down at the purple cat with its manic grin and shrugged. "Appropriate."_

"_You know the plan?" he asked needlessly._

"_By heart," she answered. "You have your guns?"_

_He patted the breast pocket on his jacket and pant pocket on his leg. "And you remember plan B?"_

"_Of course I do," she said, praying to who or whatever it was out there that they wouldn't have to use it. _

"_Right. Remember to wait three minutes after I go in," he smirked. "I'd wait longer, but I'll need you to translate."_

"_You should've learned Hungarian," she sang._

_Cyril rolled his eyes before Rose traded her flirtatious expression for a sober one. "Be careful," she insisted as she automatically leaned closer to him._

"_Always am," he murmured before his lips met hers. _

_It was a quick kiss, but was by no means chaste. It was the kiss lovers shared before heading off to war._

_They parted and she laughed softly. "No you're not."_

_He grinned mischievously at her but made no attempt to disagree, as he opened the door and got out._

Rose's eyes snapped open, and she found herself on her living room sofa. Audrey was singing and dancing in her nightgown about how she could've danced all night, which meant Rose hadn't been asleep for very long.

As the memory of her dream flooded her conscience, Rose closed her eyes as though she was having a headache.

Another memory.

A _nightmare_, you might say.

Rose picked up her empty wine glass off the coffee table.

_Why do these memories keep returning now? _She wondered.

Perhaps it was partly because of John's questions earlier in the day. But she was already having them before that.

_Maybe I should see a therapist, _she wondered as she turned off her television. She then chuckled to herself as she went to the kitchen to rinse off the glass before dispersing the notion. _Yeah, that'll happen, _she thought sarcastically.

She then turned off the lights and picked up the throw she had been nestled in off the couch.

She stopped for a moment, realizing a chill had been aroused in her bones from the sheer emptiness of her huge flat.

_Maybe I really should get a flat-mate, _she thought.

She chuckled to herself.

_Yeah, that'll happen._

* * *

Rose got up the next morning, showered, dressed, and headed to Scotland Yard. She reached the front desk, where her eye caught Sergeant Donovan.

Rose waved to the woman to get her attention. Donovan noticed her and walked over. "Mrs. Freak," she began, her eyebrows raised. "Haven't seen you in a while. What, you getting jealous of your husband's new boyfriend?"

Rose marveled, not for the first time, at how the officer's tone stayed professional and even, yet her diction came out so…well, bitchy.

"I was invited on the case, Sally, and I was hoping you would kindly lead me to Lestrade," Rose said coolly.

"Oh, the more the merrier. We need another one on the job, another psychopath, I mean," Donovan quipped.

Rose refrained from rolling her eyes. She had a theory that Sally had been one of those quiet, smart girls in secondary school, and was spared her share of drama. Now, it was like she tried to make up for it in the adult world.

"Neither of us are psychopaths, Sally, I'm sure you know that by now," Rose calmly refuted.

"Right, the Freak is just a…high-functioning sociopath or whatever and you're…well you're something." She leaned in closer, like they were gossiping friends. "I've seen your record. There's so much stuff blacked out, and you've had your name changed _how _many times?"

Rose tensed up a little bit. Sally could be catty, but she was a professional. She knew better than to use anything against her at the risk of her job.

"Sally, I think we better get going, don't you?" Rose suggested, ignoring the officer's prompt to engage in some estrogen-rampant duel. She avoided other girls in school for that very reason. "The sooner you can return to Anderson. Bet the two of you don't get much time together these days now that his wife's back home."

Well, she couldn't _completely _ignore it.

Sally glared at her, but shrugged it off. "Follow me. They're already there," she said, referring to Sherlock and John.

They reached Lestrade's open office. John was facing the detective inspector at his desk. Sherlock was pacing around, his hands together in the shape of a steeple. _His thinking face. _

"Your better half's here," Sally called to Sherlock.

Rose turned her head to Sally. "Was that even an insult?" she asked, genuinely curious.

"_Better_ is not necessarily _good_," Sally plainly said, before ducking out.

Rose furrowed her brow. "She was wearing men's soap," she said to no one in particular. "Morning boys."

"Morning," Lestrade murmured. John smiled at her. Sherlock nodded, still pacing.

"We were just about to start going over the victim," John explained.

"She lives in Cornwall," Lestrade began. "Two men broke in wearing masks, forced her to drive to the park and decked her out in enough explosives to take down a house."

John's eyes widened. Sherlock remained in thinking mode. Rose didn't flinch, although her own memories that resurfaced with the word "explosives" were never all that pleasant.

"Told her to phone you," Lestrade continued, looking to Sherlock, "she had to read out from this pager," he said, pulling out the device.

Sherlock loomed over the all-but-obsolete gadget. "And if she deviated by one word, the sniper would set her off."

"Or if you hadn't solved the case," John added.

"Ah! Elegant," Sherlock whispered, mainly to himself.

John looked up a bit, but didn't turn to face his friend. "Elegant?" he asked.

"What was the point, why would anyone do this?" Lestrade asked.

Rose looked to the two men; she was stupefied by their own disbelief.

_They have no idea._

"Well, I can't be the only person in the world who gets bored," Sherlock said, looking out the window.

Rose braced herself for an overwhelming awkward silence, but luckily, it never came, because the pink phone chirped.

Sherlock answered it, and everyone strained to listen.

"_You have one new message."_

Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.

"Four pips," John pointed out.

"First test passed, it would seem," Sherlock said. "Here's the second." He held out the phone to Lestrade, showing him the sent picture of a silver car. "It's abandoned, wouldn't you say?"

Lestrade took the phone in his hand. "I'll see if it's been reported," he said, picking up his office phone.

Sally returned to the room with a phone in her hand.

"Freak, it's for you," she said.

Sherlock left the room to take the call.

Rose's curiosity burned at her, and she wanted nothing more than to follow Sherlock, cup her ear to the conversation. Instead, she sat herself next to John, who appeared every bit as interested as she felt.

"So uh, are you..?" John began. Rose understood his confusion as to why Sherlock invited her along, because she felt it, too. She shrugged. "If I'm needed, I'm here," was all she said.

Rose's gaze roamed over to Lestrade, who was busily searching for the car. She then realized that she could probably speed the process up, and pulled out her phone, accessing Mycroft's security surveillances. John started watching her as she went through it, searching for a Mazda RX-8 with license plate BJ06 ZHT. "Rose, are you…in Mycroft's system?" John asked in disbelief.

"No, I'm playing Robot Unicorn Attack 2," Rose answered dryly. John shrugged and returned his focus to Sherlock, who could be seen through the window. In the corner of her eye, she saw him get up to go to him. Within thirty seconds, Rose found an image that matched what she'd seen on the pink phone. She quietly got up and approached Lestrade, who was asking on the phone about the vehicle. She tapped him on the shoulder and showed him the picture.

Lestrade hung up the phone. "Great." He quickly stood up and rushed out the room, Rose on his heels. "We found it," Lestrade called out to Sherlock and John. John had been watching Sherlock, and Sherlock didn't seem to hear.

Lestrade looked back at Rose. "I knew I missed having you around."

That got John's attention. _Did Rose used to work here?_

Rose smirked to herself, small as the task was, it felt good to help here.

_If I'm needed, I'm here._

* * *

**Author's Note: **Robot Unicorn Attack 2 is also a new vice I've been procrastinating with. If any of you were wondering, I got a lot of inspiration from Simon Baker for Cyril. Trust me, he's gonna be a part of this story!

Also, I certainly hope some of you automatically thought about Smaug when you read the dragon lair analogy, because I was sure thinking it when I wrote it! I never thought I'd be so attracted to a reptile before…


	12. Chapter 10: Codes

**Author's Note: **Sorry this is so late and short! I procrastinated big time on this (shocker), but I PROMISE I will have 11 posted earlier in the day. We're just gonna go through a bit more introspection with Rose, and in the next chapter, she's actually gonna do…STUFF.

Also, I just wanna say how happy I am to be in the double-digits of my chapters. Appreciate the little things, right?

**Disclaimer: **Sherlock isn't mine. Yet.

* * *

**Chapter 10: Codes**

Rose, Sherlock, John and Lestrade all rode together to the scene of the abandoned Mazda; Lestrade drove with Sherlock in the front seat. Rose and John sat in the back. The first half of the ride was awkwardly silent; Sherlock was deep in thought about the case—though his whole body was still, his eyes seemed brighter than usual. This inherently seemed to bother John, as he was seeing a side of Sherlock he clearly wasn't too fond of. In a way, Sherlock's evident delight in this game tugged at her conscious, but for reasons completely different from John's. To cope with the silence, Rose stared out the window, chewing on her thumb. Lestrade, meanwhile, smiled cordially, inviting friendly conversation, though made no attempt to start his own.

Surprisingly, John did.

"So…you two know each other well, then?" he asked, indicating Lestrade and Rose.

Lestrade lit up a bit, either surprised by the question or glad someone said something, Rose wasn't sure.

"Oh, we go quite a ways back," Lestrade answered, keeping his eyes on the road. "Actually, it was Rose who introduced me to Sherlock."

"He was at our wedding," Rose added with a smirk, still gnawing on her thumb.

"Oh, so…you know about…" John began.

"The happy couple of convenience? Oh, yeah," Lestrade said.

John's brow knit together and his eyes darted between Sherlock and Rose. "Wait, I thought that was a secret."

"Anyone who won't go blabbing about it is welcome to know," Sherlock said, though he seemed barely aware of his words, as he was when he was concentrating on something else. "Most people have minds too feeble to sustain such impulse to gossip."

For a moment, John thought Sherlock was inadvertently complimenting the people who did know, him included, until, of course, Sherlock continued.

"But Scotland Yard has access to files so they'd find out anyway, Mycroft is on a gag deal of sorts, you, well, you _live_ with me, and Mrs. Hudson would need some explanation as to why I often receive mail under the name of a woman with the same surname as mine."

Sherlock's explanation seemed to come out even quicker than usual, sounding impatient. Although John was fairly used to being insulted by his flat-mate—both accidentally and otherwise, he was a bit hurt that Sherlock didn't really trust anyone with the real reason for the ring on Rose's finger, least of all him.

"You get Rose's mail?" John asked.

"Obviously," Sherlock breathed out, his teeth clenched. He was definitely losing his patience.

Rose, however, cut in.

"Any time I need to give an address, it's always 221B Baker Street. Need to make everyone think we live together," she explained with a gentle smile.

"Ah," John said under his breath, mentally kicking himself for not guessing that.

Another beat of silence passed.

Rose looked to the reflection of Lestrade's eyes in the rearview mirror, her heart panging with sympathy, as she could see that he, too, was offended by what Sherlock said, after the two had known each other for five years. Rose liked Lestrade more than she could say; he was really the first adult who ever took a moment to call her _gifted _as opposed to labeling her as _a problem child_.

"I trust Greg with my life," she finally said. "We are quite old friends, indeed."

Lestrade smiled. "Well, you made quite a first impression," he chuckled, and looked to John in the mirror. "It was back in my younger days," he began. "I was still just a T/DI, and we got called to the Bank of London; they had a system break-in."

"What, no Chinese acrobats?" John joked, referring to their recent case.

"No," Lestrade chuckled. "It was a_ computer_ _hacker_."

"Ah, good old '92," Rose sighed nostalgically. "That was a great year. MindVox was released, 1260 was written…not to mention the movie _Sneakers _came out…"

"It was a great year for _hackers_," Lestrade corrected. "It was Hell on earth for every corporation, not to mention every government."

Rose rolled her eyes. "1994 was Hell, _old man_," but she was still smiling.

Lestrade ignored her and continued. "I thought it was weird that the Yard was called in; it's a federal offense when any corporation is infiltrated. They said someone used this new device—it was terrifying for people with computers—what was it, poly…"

"Polymorphic code," Rose supplied.

"Yeah, with this code, hackers practically became ninjas, and this one probably would have gotten away with it just as well, but it was odd," Lestrade said with a knowing grin. "This person didn't take any of their information, didn't steal a single penny…it was like they were just doing it to say, 'look what I can do.' And just when I thought this hacker couldn't get any dumber, they told us that every computer screen in the building was replaced with a big logo saying _Rosamond was here._" Lestrade shook his head, chuckling. Rose was glaring at him, but she had a touch of humor to her eyes. "There aren't too many Rosamonds in London, let alone any with a history in hacking, and there wasn't anyone known in the hacking community who went under that as an alias. But there _was _one, who had once or twice broken into a primary school database. Imagine my surprise when I found out that she was a fourteen-year-old girl," he laughed. "The head of the bank called us not too find out who did it, because he already knew who it was. He just needed us to arrest her!"

Rose smirked. "Yes, my first trip to the police station, I'll never forget my parents' faces."

"We all felt a little bad for her, though," Lestrade continued, a bit more soberly. "The kid just wanted attention. We let her off with a warning, but we kept a good eye on her, and sometimes we called her in for help, even MI6 borrowed her once or twice," he grinned. "I guess there's one thing you two have in common," he said, referring to her and Sherlock, who was currently not of this world. "You both love to show off—" but then he paused and glance back at Rose. "Well, not so much anymore with you."

"So, why didn't you stay with Scotland Yard?" John asked her.

Rose shrugged. "The stuff I do now is a bit more under the radar…it's a bit exhausting trying to share the stage with Sherlock Holmes."

She was smiling, but to John, it didn't seem as genuine as it was a moment ago.

But the conversation ended there, as they had finally arrived to the site of the car, which was already flooded with the police. The four got out as Lestrade read the case files out to them. "The car was hired by an Ian Monkford, banker of some kind, city boy. Paid in cash." They got closer to the car. "He told his wife he went away on a business trip but never arrived." Rose listened as Sherlock looked into the car, which was splashed with blood. In her peripherals, Rose was a bit annoyed to see Sally approach John, but tuned out to whatever disapproval she was dishing out.

"Before you ask, yes, it's Monkford's blood. DNA checks out." Meanwhile, Rose noticed Sherlock pull some business card out of the glove compartment, but didn't catch the name written over it. He shut the glove compartment and straightened. "No body?" he asked.

"Not yet," Sally retorted, bothering Rose with her words' true implications.

Sherlock ignored the woman. "Get his samples sent to the lab," he said, before heading off to a woman a few meters away who was most likely Mrs. Monkford. Rose, however, stayed behind with the detective inspector and sergeant; the former glowering at the latter.

"Donovan," Lestrade muttered in frustration. He knew what she had meant.

Donovan's mouth hung open in disbelief. "I still don't see how you can let that freak near, and now you're letting his…_mate _come aboard, too?"

"Relax, Sal, it's not like I've rolled around in your crime scene or anything," Rose said. Donovan glared at her disdainfully, as though insulted she called her _Sal_ as if they were the best of friends despite the fact that she had clearly described Rose as Sherlock's _mate_—and she knew she wasn't referring to the kind you went to pubs with, but the insect kind of mate. To Sally, Rose, Sherlock and John were nothing but pests.

"Donovan, you know we need Holmes, and if Rose decides to come along, so much the better," Lestrade said.

Rose smiled at the detective. Used to defending herself, it was little nice to have someone else speak up for her, like he did when she was a teenager. In a lot of ways, Lestrade had been her ideal image of a father: kind, teasing, warm. Her own father rarely touched, let alone speak to her when she was growing up.

Sally looked at Lestrade with a mixture of betrayal and disbelief before walking away. Lestrade watched her, sighing with exasperation. Rose then caught his eye, as though he just realized she was there. "They're not all like that, Rose," he assured her. "Most of the Yard knows they need Sherlock."

Rose knew he meant well, but laughed humorlessly. "I'd say that should give them all the more reason to detest him."

Lestrade smiled sadly at the woman but didn't argue, because her words were more than a little true. "It really is good to see you, though, Rose," he said. "You've been back nearly six years, but you never seem to come out."

Rose didn't really know what to say. _I'm sorry I left you like some ungrateful child after you showed me nothing but kindness, I'm sorry I turned against the world, I'm sorry I never pop in to say hi._

The truth was Rose felt ashamed to face Lestrade. He was just one more person she turned her back on to be Bonnie, and even after everything she'd done, even after all the crap he went through when she was away, he had still welcomed her back like a war-torn friend. It was like she had spent the last few years with some sickness that _wasn't _criminal insanity.

The other truth was that Rose didn't really hide from the world to keep from angering her parents (she had already run away, what worse could she do), she could just hardly stand facing the people she betrayed.

"Are we going to see more of you?" Lestrade asked, trying not to sound too hopeful. "We could really use you."

Rose chuckled. "As if you need a computer analyst."

Lestrade scoffed. "Rose Holmes, I know you're brilliant, and not just with a laptop."

Rose chuckled again. She was so used to using both of her last names, it was strange to hear someone say her name so simply.

"You and Sherlock, love it or hate it, really balance each other out," he continued.

Just then, Sherlock, who was leaving the crime scene with John, called over his shoulder. "Come along, Rose."

Rose looked at Lestrade once more. "I guess we'll just see, won't we?" and hurried after the pair.

"Where are we going?" she asked once she caught up with them.

"Janus Cars," he said, wiping his eyes. "I need to dig up what you can while John and I go have a little interview."

Rose looked over at the man. "Sherlock, have you been _crying_?"

* * *

**Author's Note: **I really don't have much to say, except a big fat thank you to all you followers, reviewers, and…favoriters? This is seriously the stuff I run on, you guys.


	13. Chapter 11: Identity

**Author's Note: **So here's the next chapter, as promised!

I was a little unsure when I first started writing this because the beginning was kinda slow and awkward for me, but overall I'm glad with how it turned out. You'll probably notice that here, I bent the episode just a bit to fit my needs rather than work around it, which I tend to do more of in the future.

I want to just take this moment and applaud how patient you readers have been with me. Although I think I've been doing a decent job staying true to Sherlock's character and regret nothing, this has to be the slowest-paced romance in the history of all fanfiction. But here, will be able to see things heat up _just _a little, and there will be more soon to come! ;)

Thanks to all of you who have faved, followed and reviewed. I wish I could knit each and every one of you a John Watson sweater.

_Sherlock_ belongs to BBC.

* * *

**Chapter 11: Identity**

While Sherlock and John went to talk to the head of Janus Cars, Rose stayed behind at a nearby park with her laptop, doing her own background research, which was an admittedly mundane task. She found that Monkford had had some troubles at the bank, he had been depressed as his wife had mentioned, blah blah blah. But she didn't find anything particularly useful.

Rose became frustrated. None of what she was doing right now was anything Scotland Yard was incapable of.

Still, she had her foot in the threshold.

She was interrupted by a chirp from her phone. She pulled it out to find a message from Mycroft.

_You're with him right now, aren't you?_

_Mycroft_

Rose replied.

_Yes, I wanted to help him._

_RGH_

Rose exhaled as she sent the message. _Was_ she any help, here, though?

_You know you're more use working with me._

_Mycroft_

A bit irritated that her brother-in-law was not wrong in saying so, she sent another curt response.

_I do work with you._

_RGH_

As he always does eventually, Mycroft cut to the real reason as to why he was speaking to her.

_Well, has Sherlock reached any leads for the BP program?_

_Mycroft_

As she didn't care to respond (and didn't know anyway), Rose pocketed the gadget, ending the conversation there (although she couldn't put the thought away). As much as she wanted to be around Sherlock and John, she wasn't sure how much use she could be here. At the Hive, on the other hand, there was always something for her to do.

Besides, she was a little all over the place right now; she was going against the rule she had set for herself that decreed _no crime scene stuff_.

And that wasn't a very good rule to break.

But then again, Sherlock didn't seem to care.

Did _she_?

Yes, her parents could find out and _yes_, they could disinherit her.

But the truth was, she didn't really care what they did.

She knew how to evade them, they knew she had done much worse in the past (they didn't know everything, but they knew enough) so she didn't have much to lose. Even if they _did_ find out, she could survive on her own, and so could Sherlock, although the extra cash certainly made it easier for both of them.

But none of these were the real reasons why she had meant so ardently to forbid herself from getting into cases and crime and cops and car chases.

_But what does he need me for?!_

These thoughts evaporated when she saw him and John heading toward her. She put her laptop away in her bag and met with them.

"Find anything?" she asked.

"Oh, yes!" Sherlock said, only stopping once to look at her. However, he didn't elaborate further. "John, I need you to meet with Mrs. Monkford and ask her some questions. I don't really care what you ask her, her troubles with her husband, their social life, her interests, her blood type, anything."

John stared at him and opened his mouth to question his friend, but Sherlock cut him off with his explanation. "Just tell me how she's acting; you're approachable, harmless-looking, and easy to forget so I doubt she'll remember you from earlier."

John gave Sherlock a look (which he didn't notice) but made no argument.

"Rose, I'll need you to come with me to Bart's. I need to run some tests and fill you in on a few things so it'll be easier if you just stick with me," Sherlock continued.

"Oh, good," Rose said dryly. "It'll be nice to be in on the loop."

Without another word, the two parties went their separate ways.

* * *

Sherlock and Rose were soon in the lab Sherlock frequently used at St. Bart's, where he ran the experiments on some of Monkford's blood.

Certainly not for the first time, Rose felt very out of place and more than a little forgotten as Sherlock busily began pulling his tools out.

Impatiently, she cleared her throat, causing him to look up.

She finally asked the big question:

"Sherlock, what am I doing here?"

His eyes returned to the sample. "I told you, Rose. I need to fill you in on the case. If you would kindly give me a moment to take care of this, I'll tell you—"

"No," she interrupted. "I mean, what am I doing _here_? You've invited me along on these past couple of cases, but it's not like you _need_ me. So what is it, are you _lonely_? Because you have that skull I gave you for Christmas and now you have John, so I doubt you need any other reason to talk aloud!"

Realizing she had begun to raise her voice, she lowered herself a little to continue.

"You've been doing this nearly six years and you've never asked me for more than some favors and income. Why have you changed the pattern?"

Sherlock, who had returned his focus to the woman, straightened to speak to her.

"I thought it was obvious, Rosamond," Sherlock said, the slight lightness to his tone dramatically contrasting her bitter one. "You're my favorite audience member."

Rose laughed without humor. "Oh, of course that's it. Not that I'm any help, but I'm a _great _bystander. Please cut the rubbish, Sherlock, what the _bloody_ hell am I doing here?"

Sherlock turned completely toward her. He analyzed for just a moment, and took a step forward.

"You're here because you can't stand being anywhere else; I know that because I saw you walk away after we caught the order of the black lotus and I knew you were forcing yourself to leave." His voice lowered a few octaves. "You're here because if you weren't, you would either be in that underground tunnel with a league of computer-savvy slaves or at your flat watching that god-awful musical and frankly, I don't know which is more pathetic. But more importantly," and a few octaves more, "you're here because you _can _be, regardless of any excuse you make concerning your parents."

Here, he took one more step forward, so that they were close enough that she could see the dark outlines of his irises and smell his scent, which reminded her vaguely of old books and anise.

"But most importantly of all, you are here because I'm waiting on something big, something new." He stopped, as if the next part was having difficulty coming out. "And we're going to want you here for it."

_Oh, yes._

_The storm._

Rose felt strangely overwhelmed at the moment, but she braced herself to ask:

"_What's_ coming, Sherlock?"

The detective stared back at her with an unblinking intensity, as though he was searching for something in her eyes. Then, as though making a decision, he continued.

"Remember the name Moriarty?"

Rose nodded.

Sherlock inhaled, as though to say something. It felt like Rose's chest was about to implode from the relentless hammering away her heart was inflicting. For a split second, he glanced down at her lips, and then back up at her eyes, exhaling. Whatever he was about to say, it was gone, now.

"Just be ready," was all he said quietly, returning to his work space.

And that was that.

"Oh, but I do need for something right now," he told her, his tone returning to normal. "Mr. Ewart, the head of Janus cars, has been abroad, recently, somewhere in South America—don't ask me how I found out, I'll explain later. I need you to cross-reference him with Ian Monkford on anything you can find—and look up Janus cars."

Rose folded her arms as she waited for her heart to steady. She felt like he was holding something back.

Thinking logically, she could guess that he was using psychology to manipulate her. First, he had given her reasons why she'd want to stay, aiming to make her believe that nothing else she did was really meaningful. He also came in close proximity to intimidate her, and he made her feel needed (though he kept that part vague) and he didn't tell her everything in order to keep her intrigued.

And intrigued she was.

"Well," she began, retrieving her laptop to set it on the table across from him. "You're asking me to do something I can do that the Yard can't." She turned it on and smiled slightly over at him. "A start, I suppose."

Her computer started humming as it began booting up. "Janus," she murmured, mostly to herself. "Always liked that one."

Sherlock looked up, puzzled.

"You know, the…Roman god of change." Appropriate. "He had two faces," she told him, hoping to jog his memory.

"Two faces," Sherlock whispered, and he looked back at her. "See what you can dig up on any illegal identity changes."

Rose grinned, more than a little excited at the prompt. "With pleasure," she chirped, setting to work.

Perhaps MI6 could find a few paper trails for Ewart, _maybe_, but there were few she knew who could find any digital evidence of identity change. But for Rose, anything on the subject was a specialty of hers. She had more than a fair share of experience with the matter, and she knew how to spot the signs and the mistakes. It was a challenge, admittedly, and she was more than glad for that.

The next hour and a half was spent in total silence.

While Sherlock looked over the blood samples, Rose drummed away at her keyboard, literally sweating with concentration.

At almost the exact same time, the two stopped, each pleased with their own work.

"The blood was frozen. Ian donated it to make it look like a murder scene," Sherlock announced.

"That's cute," Rose answered. "Mr. and Mrs. Monkford got relocated to Colombia under the assumed name Carlton. Janus cars is actually a special service that can relocate anyone who needs it," she finished smugly, although she knew it was Sherlock who had called the shot. She'd just done the heavy lifting.

Sherlock quickly pulled out his phone and texted John, telling him the case was solved. "We're going to meet with Lestrade," Sherlock explained, walking around to her. "I told John to meet us down here."

Rose nodded, and suddenly realized she was hungry. "Well, while we wait, I'm going to find something edible in the canteen," she said.

Sherlock nodded and reached for her computer, and his hand brushed with hers for a moment, extorting a sensation running along Rose's spine which she couldn't decide was hot or cold.

The hammering started again.

Sherlock froze, too, and she wondered if he felt something similar.

It was then that she realized that they had been staring at each other the past few seconds, and were currently in a kind of immediacy not unlike the one they faced earlier.

As the tension in the air abated to awkwardness, Rose cleared her throat and slid the laptop to him.

"Thank you," he muttered as he took an extra step back, logging onto his website. It was then that she realized he was putting in the answer to the puzzle.

After over an hour of being in her element, Rose now felt incredibly out of place.

"Right," she said, unsure what to do before remembering that she was going to leave the room—which she was more than glad to do.

* * *

Rose stepped into the canteen, which was mostly empty save for a couple of workers who weren't in scrubs or lab coats.

_IT workers, _Rose concluded.

Having lost most of the appetite from the close encounter, she opted to find something small.

Of course, it wasn't that she didn't _enjoy _the closeness to Sherlock per se, but that was just it, wasn't it?

After Cyril, she didn't exactly trust her instincts when it came to relationships.

As she reached for a yogurt, she realized that someone else was aiming to grab the same one. She looked up to see a man around Rose's age.

He was cute, in a weird way she couldn't explain, and was just a bit taller than her, with brown hair and brown (almost black) eyes.

The man smiled sheepishly at her. "My bad," he said. "I was just grabbing something real quick before heading back upstairs," he continued with a decidedly Irish lilt to his voice.

"Oh, it's no big deal," she answered in a friendly tone that matched his, grabbing a different yogurt.

"I'm Jim," he introduced, his friendliness strangely resembling that of a cheerleader.

"Rose," Rose replied.

"So, are you new here, Rose?" he asked as they paid for their food.

"Uh, no," Rose answered. Although she could see that he was genuinely curious and not trying to come on to her, she felt oddly uncomfortable around him. "I was just…helping my husband downstairs."

The young man's eyes lit up. "Oh! You must be Sherlock Holmes's wife!"

Rose felt her hands grow clammy. "How did you know that?" she asked, trying to keep herself from sounding defensive.

"Oh, I'm Molly's boyfriend," Jim answered, still smiling as brightly as ever. "She's told me all about you."

"Oh, has she?" Rose asked, still in dismay.

"Well, she said you only met once, but she did tell me you were super smart and pretty. And she was right. You're like, _really _pretty."

"Uh, thank you," she answered uncomfortably.

"So you agree," he said. Although he was still smiling, Rose could've sworn his gleaming eyes got a bit darker. "You think you're really pretty?"

"Um," Rose wasn't too sure how to respond.

"Oh, silly, you've never seen _Mean Girls_, have you?" he chuckled.

"No, guess not," Rose forced a laugh, eager to leave.

Jim's eyes lit up. "Oh my god, you, Molly, and I need to get together some time and watch it! Molly hasn't seen it either and frankly, it's criminal to _not _have seen _Mean Girls_. Lindsay Lohan is just…" Jim trailed off as if no definition could do the teen queen justice.

"Um, yeah," Rose said. "I'll talk to Molly about it next time I see her," she told him as she began heading toward the door. "Well, I'll see you around, Jim."

"And don't forget!" Jim called after her. "It's just criminal you haven't seen it, Rose! _Criminal_!"

* * *

**Author's Note: **You have no idea how long I've wanted an interaction between "gay Jim from IT" and Rose. Can we all just take a moment to appreciate how amazing it would be if Moriarty really loved _Mean Girls_? He and Regina would be a frightening duo.

Oh, and I've been meaning to apologize for how little I know about computer hacking. :/

Let me know what you like/hate!


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